The Oligarchy
by Broken-Vow
Summary: With a corrupt government tightening its grip, Christine comes to realize that she might just be the key to it all. AU.
1. Scarlet Wedding

**I hope you guys enjoy this story. It's very different and unusual. It's based heavily on Ibsen's _A Doll's House__, _and it resembles Atwood's _The Handmaid's Tale _as well. Be patient in waiting for our favorite character, and don't hesitate to leave a comment!**

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The Oligarchy

_Scarlet Wedding_

_The darkness was surrounding her, drowning her, making it impossible to do anything but struggle fruitlessly_. _Her legs would not work_. _They were exhausted by all the effort, as was the rest of her body trying to get some movement_. _Suffocation was near; she could feel it_.

_A shade of gray peered down at her_. _It was not white; it was gray. It was _lighter_, and she would take it if she must_. _She tried to reach for it, but the closer she came, the farther away it went, until all she wanted to do was not to exist, or feel, or struggle, or think_…._The little control she had was slipping away._

_But perhaps she never had it in the first place._

"Christine! Stop staring and do something useful."

I jump out of my daydream and look around quickly. But there isn't anything to do. However, I have several years of practice at pretending to do something, so I put this into use. Nothing is coming with me; the clothes on my back will be thrown out. It is a cleansing process, a sign of my complete surrender.

A few minutes pass, and then my mother grabs my wrist.

"Come. We cannot be late."

When we reach the door, I turn for a last look at the bedroom I have hated for years. The impersonal frills and laces of the room stare back at me. My bed, however, looks forlorn. That piece of furniture has been my comfort. Countless tears have satiated the pillows. Before I can think further, the door snaps shut.

My mother and I hurry down the stairs onto the main floor. As we cross the great room, my father jerks from his doze in his chair, grumbles something unintelligible, and goes back to his nap. The soft smile on my lips is unseen to him. It is very likely that I shall never see my father again. But perhaps he is used to his children leaving and now thinks nothing of it.

The wide carriage waits for us in the small courtyard. My mother climbs in first, and I follow. As soon as I am seated, the carriage jerks off noisily, rattling its way out of the property. I cannot bring myself to look out the window, but it isn't as if there will be anything interesting out there. Nobody will be out on the streets.

My mother begins to criticize. She pulls my dress and hair and pinches my cheeks, all the while a steady stream of commands coming.

"Don't twist your hands like that! Whoever did your hair? It hardly looks proper. Your face is pale. Be sure to pinch it whenever you can. And stop staring! You are so unnatural, child, so much stranger than your siblings. How did you ever become picked when you are some kind of wicked spirit? Well, make sure to lower your eyes, at the very least. Draw as much attention to your other features as possible."

She continues for some time, but I sit silently and say nothing. There was a time when I drank in all that she says, but, after some years, I no longer care nor listen. I do all that I can, but it is not enough, and I do not care anymore.

The carriage lurches to a halt, sending my heart somewhere to my throat. I am too nervous to say anything. Air greets me, hot and dry, when I step out of the carriage. The courtyard is massive, a huge bare slab of stone, with no signs of life except our little coach. The Capitol spreads before us. Its many spires and towers reach toward the sky, hoping to match the beauty of the vast blue, but it is nothing more than huge pile of rock on the beautiful, green earth, and it is a scar on Earth's surface. Mother, however, eyes it with an appreciative eye.

We are not allowed to linger. A small man dressed in black hurries out of a door, and he ushers us inside with a wave of his hand. Not a word is spoken as we enter the cold building. The lower walls are bare, prison-like, but the higher we climb, the more lavish the decorations. When we climb the umpteenth flight of stairs, the little man leaves us outside a large door.

"You have one hour," is his farewell.

Without further ado, my mother pushes the door open and strides into the room. I follow tentatively. It is a room that obviously serves no purpose but to serve no purpose. There are some tables piled in the corner, and a square window leaks in just a little light. Three vast mirrors, however, dominate the far wall. The middle one is huge and overpowers the other two. A small, spindly table has a box placed on it, and Mother walks over and opens it, pulling out sheets of velvet material. I cannot breathe at the sight.

"Well, child?" she demands. "Hurry! We have only an hour."

Blushing slightly, I begin to peel of the gown I am wearing. When I am ready, she begins to help me pull on layer after layer of the deepest scarlet. It is a heavy, dense fabric, and I can feel my skin perspire already from the folds of cloth. Mother redoes my hair, muttering to herself. After pinching my cheeks again, she places the soft veil around my shoulders and pulls it over my face. I can see out of it, but she cannot see me.

For an awkward while, there is silence.

"You know what is expected of you," she says. It is not a question. "I have prepared you too long to mess up this opportunity. Again, why they should choose _you _is a mystery. But the Oligarchy knows best, and it will make sure that you perform what is required."

I nod silently, and for a few minutes it looks as if she is having an inner battle to say something. However, there is a slight knock on the door before she can say anything else. The same man enters and gestures for me to follow. Shuffling under the weight of the gown, I make my way toward the door before turning to look once more at my mother. It is unlikely we shall ever see each other again. I wish to say something, but what would I say? I hardly know my mother. The most time we have spent together was these last few months before I learned to whom I was to be wed.

"Well?" she hisses. "Hurry up!"

The door shuts when I exit. That part of my life is gone, vanished, and now the only path I see is literally ahead of me, a long, straight hallway. Timidly, I follow the man, who walks and turn to his left to enter through a door. Straight through a room, the second door in the next hallway, up two flights of stairs, and through the first door on the left.

We arrive at a huge door that dominates a wall. It is carved with painstaking detail, and the knob gleams brightly under the lamps in the hallway. The man dressed in black points to it. My stomach is heaving, and I cannot breathe well. Raising a shaky hand, I turn the doorknob and push it open before entering quietly.

The room is so lavish my eyes ache. The walls and ceiling are lined with gold, and couches litter the room. A painting hangs on the wall opposite a large fireplace. In the painting are six men, all stern-looking with dark hair and sharp eyes. They seem to stare at me as I walk farther into the room. Seated on the couches are eight men, all dressed in dark suits except one, who is dressed in the purest white. A heavy veil covers his face, also. It is to him that my eyes are drawn. Is he looking at me, I wonder? Could he have the same tortured thoughts running through his head?

When I enter, the room falls hushed at once, and all eyes are on me. I squirm under their stares, but I do not move. Obediently, I stand, waiting to be commanded.

"You are the woman sent for?" one of the men seated demands.

"Yes." I am surprised they can hear me. I cannot hear myself.

"You are the one chosen?"

Again, "Yes."

"I shall check," says a tall, gangly man. He approaches and peers down at me. His face is heart-shaped but his nose is flat and wide, and his jaw is high defined. Shoulder-length, thin white hair hangs down and frames his face. Placing a claw-like hand on my shoulder, he turns me around so my back faces the room. Quickly, he lifts my veil. I can only hope that my face does not betray my true feelings. The veil is replaced and he returns to his spot.

"It is she."

There is another moment of silence as I turn to face them once more. Most of the men there look…bored, unconcerned. One man rises, and the others follow. The first man is stout and dark, with a broad chest and thick brows. His nose is straight and his mouth shapely, but he looks harsh. Without a word, he leads the procession into an adjoining room. I take it I am to follow and do so.

It is much darker in here. There are only two pieces of furniture, and nothing adorns the ceiling or walls. A low table sits in the middle, and on one side is a low, cushioned chair. The man garbed in white sits at that chair.

"Kneel," says the white-haired man.

I do so, across the small table from the man seated in the chair. My heart is thumping horribly against my chest. I have never been so nervous, so afraid, and I can hardly hear as someone begins to speak in low, gravelly tones.

"It is with supreme delicacy that the Oligarchy has chosen this union. Under the befitting excellence of the families chosen, it is only natural to combine. We see this union as something beneficial to all and bestow upon you the responsibility of the…"

It is hard for me to focus upon his words. My stomach seems to have disappeared, and my heart is racing. I focus my gaze on the veiled man, wondering, always wondering but never knowing. My knees begin to ache slightly on the cold marble floor.

The man in white moves. He pulls off a shawl-like piece of clothing that is draped around his shoulders, leans over, and places it over mine. It is a hard contrast, the snow-white against the blood-red. For another minute, silence stretches into a century. In pairs, the men file out, some whispering quietly, others still silent. Only two men remain; the dark one that led us in here, and the man in white. They move to a corner and talk quietly. Snatches float over to me.

"….long?"

"One or two….Capitol?"

"….plan."

"Good luck."

The darkly-dressed man exists, and the other turns to me. I feel my hands begin to shake.

"Come," he says.

Again, I am following someone through the strange building. We meet no one on the way to…wherever we are going. It does not take long to reach our destination. The door we stop at is much plainer than the others and much less eye-catching. It is through this door that he enters and beckons for me to follow. I do so, my body numb and my brain dead.

The door clicks shut behind us.


	2. Night

_Night_

The room is huge. For a minute, all my fears are forgotten as I stare at it. A large fireplace casts light and warmth, as it is night and a chill creeps in through the large windows. The gossamer curtains flutter quietly. A few couches are pushed into the corner, and a long table groans under the weight of cold meats, fruits, bread, and drinks. But to dominating thing in the room is a wide bed, piled high with pillows and blankets. At this sight, the anxiety comes rushing back, and my knees nearly buckle under the weight of it.

He is at the table, pouring himself a drink. As he raises it to his lips, he pulls the veil off and drops it to the ground. He is…perfect. Dark hair falls casually to his ears, and his features are sharp, highly defined, as if deliberately sculpted to be that way. His eyes are a warm brown, shown off by thick, dark lashes.

Surveying me over his cup, he waves his fingers at me, bidding me to approach. I do so quickly.

"Your name is…Christa, correct?" His voice is pleasant-sounding.

"Christine." There is more silence as he finishes his drink.

"Take that off," he says. "Your veil."

I cannot hide a slight tremor that passes through me as I unwrap the shawl from my shoulders and pull it off of my head. Already, my eyes are trained on the floor. I can feel his eyes on my face, but we say nothing. There is a gentle _thunk _as he sets his drink down on the table, and his hands, which are warm, take my face. He turns it left and right, examining. When he's finished with my face, he pulls off the next layer. My arms are revealed, and he takes them and inspects. I do not know what he is looking for. A scar, perhaps, some blemish that would render me unworthy? This goes on. Layer after layer is taken off, and he scrutinizes all the new flesh that is exposed. Chills run up and down my spine, pooling in my stomach before taking off again. I have been very good as to controlling myself, and I cannot break now.

But as I feel his fingers brush my stomach to pull off my red chemise, I lose the little courage that I had. A sob escapes my throat, and I press m y hand to my mouth quickly, trying to stifle the tears that I cannot afford. They come anyway, and I fall to his feet, a sign of desperate submission, and bow my head.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. "I am sorry, I'm sorry…"

I wait for the punishment, staring at the floor, but it never comes. Startled, I feel him kneel in front of me, and his hands once again take my face. I allow him to raise it, but I keep my eyes on the floor.

"Look at me," he commands, though his voice is still light.

As if it was to be the last thing I do, I meet his eyes, terrified. There is no way to miss the shadow of surprise that flits across his face. He shifts closer in order to examine.

"Amazing," he murmurs. "But…of course you aren't the only one, but to see them…"

"Doctors say that it will not be passed on," I say desperately. "Brown is the dominant color." I wish to assuage his doubts; there can be no question that his life must be perfect. His children cannot have blue eyes. He nods.

"Yes, of course."

The cracking of the fire is the only thing heard for a very long time.

The rest of the night can be described in a single word: uncomfortable. My comfort hardly matters, but nevertheless, it is still a strange and unpleasant experience. I didn't know what to expect; it isn't as if I have anyone to speak to about…this. My few friends were married earlier than I, and I have not seen them since.

My one solace is that I will not have to endure many nights like this. Perhaps five or six - seven if I am young enough. The good thing is that it does not last long. Soon, he is leaving. The fire has burned low, casting large shadows over the room. Before he closes the door, he pauses.

"Oh, my name is Raoul." The door clicks shut, and for a very long while I am completely still, listening and waiting. Then, when I know that I am alone, I begin to sob. It does not take long to expel all my emotions, and, hiccupping, I crawl out of the stained sheets, pull on a nightgown, and retreat to the couches. Although they are cramped and uncomfortable, they are much better than the bed. The night stretches on. The fire dies, but I cannot relight it, and the chill sweeps into the room. I huddle in the couch, curling for warmth.

I must have dozed, because I wake to the sound of someone opening the door. Immediately, I stand. It is a short, frizzy-looking woman dressed in black. She pulls the curtains away from the windows fully before addressing me.

"I have drawn your bath," she says. "When you're finished and dressed, I shall take you to the carriage."

The room right across the hall is the bathing room, sumptuous in every detail. As I climb into the tub, water sloshes over the top, so full is it. The woman never stands still. She leaves and comes back with soaps, leaves again and returns with towels, and exits once more to bring back a gown. All conversation I attempt is snapped off with impersonal and hurried replies. She pulls me out of the bath and I dress quickly, my hair still damp. After another fifteen minutes, she has managed to make my hair presentable, and I follow her down the stairs and out into the familiar courtyard, where a large carriage is awaiting. I climb in, wincing slightly as an angry ache rushes through my stomach and down through my legs. My stomach growls with hunger.

As soon as the door is shut, the carriage takes off. I do not know where I am going, and I do not know why I am leaving the Capitol. All I know is that members of the Oligarchy do not live in the Capitol, but I wish that someone will tell me where my destination is. But it does not take long to get there, wherever it is. The door is opened for me by a tweedy-looking man who points to a heavy wooden door. The building I am standing in front of is similar to the Capitol, yet grander-looking, decorated and gilded with excess. When I walk inside, I see another woman dressed in black hurrying to meet me.

"Follow me," she says, and brushes past me. My frustration has mounted even higher. It is true that I have never been told explicit details to events, but I have always had some idea what was going on.

"Excuse me," I say quietly. "Where am I?" I feel idiotic, stupid, worthless, but I cannot question it any longer. The woman stops in surprise and turns around.

"Why, your husband's house, of course! Well, his brother lives here, too, and his wife and children. How could you not know that?"

I do not respond, and she begins to lead me once again. My stomach is rumbling angrily. This is the house that I shall have to know my way around. I try to memorize the way she takes me. Up a flight of stairs, through two hallways, across a drawing room, and the third door on the right, but as soon as I get there, my mind is erased. It is my bedroom, the room where I will be spending much of my time. It is larger than my one at my old home, but styled similarly. The walls are deep cream, and the windows wide. I do not love it, but I do not hate it. The bed, however, is much larger than my old one. I swallow at the sight. A snarl escapes my stomach once more. The woman hears it.

"I'll be back with something," she says, and turns to leave.

"Wait!" I bite my lip for a moment. "Is there…any possible way I could get embroidery materials?"

She looks at me for a moment before nodding and disappearing. I explore quietly. The wardrobe is stuffed with frills and laces, and a drawer is sparkling with jewelry of all kinds. For a moment, I wonder what my mother and father are doing. It is late morning; my mother will be starting to supervise lunch, and my father will be trying to pick a book to skim through, or perhaps speaking to those who live in the house next door.

As I am fingering the bottles on the vanity, the door opens, and the woman reenters with a tray. My brunch is a hard-boiled egg, some sliced strawberries, and a piece of unbuttered bread. A small pile of thread and material sit by it. I thank her, and she sets it on a low table that rests by the small fireplace.

"Tomorrow morning, someone will come show you the way to the kitchens. I will return later tonight with your supper."

I eat everything hungrily after she leaves. Setting the tray aside, I pick up the embroidery. This is something that I love, something that I do constantly. I cannot remember how many handkerchiefs I presented to my parents and siblings. I thread the needle and quickly begin.

Through this escape, the hours slide by quietly. For a few precious moments, I am content. The sun moves, casting different shadows. The woman returns, as promised, and presents me with another meal, this one slightly more substantial, as it consists of a small piece of beef. Someone else comes, a gentle-looking old man, to light a fire.

As the sun is dragged out by the distant mountains, I slip into a nightgown, eager for a full night of rest. As I am sitting at my vanity, unpinning my hair, the door opens, and I look at the intruder in my mirror.

It is Raoul. I stand quickly, turning, and offer him a good evening. He smiles slightly and shuts the door behind him. His loose shirt is open at the top, and I can feel myself blushing. I watch him as he walks to pull the curtains across the windows. My stomach suddenly wants to empty its contents. As he approaches, I suddenly burst out,

"I am sorry, sir, but…what are you doing here?" A wave of heat crosses my neck and face as he stares at me, and I press on stupidly. "You…you were just here last night, and…well…"

An unbearable silence fills the room as he continues to look at me. Suddenly, he laughs. It is my turn to stare at him while he continues to laugh. Finally, still smiling, he gazes at me with some kind of pity.

"Christine, it takes more than one night for…well…what we're looking for. Surely you knew that? We keep trying until we're certain."

I feel the blood drain out of my face, and suddenly the night seems much darker than usual.


	3. Introductions

**Don't worry. Erik will be appearing soon. The basics need to be established first, though. Just be strong and hang in there a few more chapters!**

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_Introductions_

It is hard to adjust to this life, but I do so eventually. It is hard for me to become comfortable with Raoul still coming regularly, but I suppose more time is needed for this.

For the most part, I keep to my room. I venture out in the mornings for breakfast. It has taken me four tries to be able to find the kitchen without getting lost. There, I eat quickly and then deliver Raoul his meal. That is what a wife does; she delivers her husband breakfast. It does not matter if I have cooked it or not. I am the one to deliver it.

He never stays at night. He goes back to his own bedroom, and I am grateful for that. I will knock on his door quietly and enter to place the heavy tray wherever he wants it. He is usually doing something different. The first time I came, he was bending over some paperwork, muttering distractedly to himself, hassled. On the second time, he was just rising from bed, looking at me interestedly from his messy sheets as I placed his breakfast on the desk. Once, he didn't look at me at all, but merely stared out of his window and ignored my presence. I do not care what he does. The only real interaction we have is at night; I blush at the thought.

I find a magnificent library while lost one afternoon. Pausing to look, I finger old dusty novels and see titles I have never seen. The most books any family has are the ten thick volumes distributed by the Oligarchy. Most stories are oral. I look at the books with fascination and am about to pull one out before a man dressed in black enters. He looks stricken to find me there.

"What are you doing?" he says. "You cannot be in here; this is a private library!"

He shoos me out of the room, and I manage to find my way back to my bedroom, thoroughly flustered. I have never seen so many books. I wonder what they are about – perhaps unfinished memoirs of the current Oligarchy, or documentaries of current battles. Nevertheless, I am too nervous to go back, and I am unsure if I will find the library again if I tried.

A few days later, as I am finishing up an embroidery project, a woman in black enters.

"You are to dine tonight with your husband, his brother, and his wife," she says at once. "Put on something presentable, and I shall fetch you soon."

Reluctantly, I set aside my sewing and go to the wardrobe. I reach in and pull out a dress at random, but instantly put it away. The cut is…exposing, and I feel the heat rush to my neck at the thought of wearing it. It takes me a few minutes to find something, and I struggle to pull it on. When the woman comes back in, however, she demands that I take it off.

"How can you be seen wearing something like this in such company?" she says. "Wear this one." And she puts the revealing dress into my hands. She is deaf to my feeble protests, so I put the dress on and try not to think of it. When I am dressed to her satisfaction, she leads me downstairs to a great dining hall. A wide glass door shows shrubs and trees on the other side. The woman in black leaves, and I direct my attention toward the table.

Another woman is sitting there, a woman so perfectly beautiful that I feel momentary disgust at myself. High cheekbones, a straight, small nose, round lips, and wide, dark eyes all come together to present her in such a way that I try to make myself as less noticeable as possible. Her hair is what interests me, however. It is not brown, but it is not red. It is somewhere in between, and it shines as the evening sun casts shadows into the room. Slowly, I walk toward the table and take a seat.

Without looking at me, she says, "That is Raoul's seat."

I jump up at once and take another chair.

"That is Philippe's seat."

She gives a small inclination with her head toward the seat next to hers, and I take that one. Still, she has not looked at me once. Unsure of myself, I watch her out of the corner of my eye and copy her movements exactly. Raoul and his brother enter, talking seriously, and take their places. They are served immediately, as are we. However, the woman does not pick up her utensil and merely stares at the wall. It is some time before we are addressed.

"Oh, Clara," says Philippe, glancing over. "Eat."

Raoul catches my eye and gives me a nod with his customary half-smile. The woman and I clear our plates – which is much less than what the men received – and we sit still once again. When all plates are clear and Raoul and Philippe are now speaking with much less severity, Clara stands.

"We are going to the gardens," says she.

Philippe hardly notices her, and she turns before tugging lightly on my sleeve. I stand and follow her out the glass door into the fresh air. The gardens are a piece of paradise. Warm winds blow lazily, while the scents of flowers intoxicate the very air I breathe. I follow Clara deeper and deeper into them until she has found the spot she wishes. Quietly and elegantly, she sits down on a simple stone bench and settles herself for a minute before peering up at me.

"When you first discovered to whom you would be wed," she says, "what was your first thought?"

I try to remember back to those months ago. I was outside, enjoying the sun, when my mother came up, looking the happiest I have ever seen her.

"I…I suppose I couldn't care," I say uncomfortably. "I knew I was to be married; all the choices seemed to be the same."

"But they aren't the same. You have been placed in the middle of the Oligarchy." She pauses for a moment. "What would you say if I told you I am a spy?"

"A spy?" I repeat stupidly.

"Yes, a spy. I am gathering information and passing it on to rebels who would like nothing more than to pull down the Oligarchy."

I frown. "You wouldn't have useful information, though. Not unless he tells you his plans in bed."

There is a pressing silence, and I wonder for a moment if she is going to scream at me. However, she stands, and a smile comes to her lips.

"Christine," she says, taking my arm, "I think we shall be very good friends."

----

The next afternoon, I am summoned once again. I walk nervously down to a room close to the dining room to find four men and Clara waiting for me. Clara gives no indication that we have ever spoken; she merely stares at the wall is if truly fascinated by the flowery paper. Raoul and Philippe are there. One in the room is the pale, thin, white-haired man who interrogated me on the wedding day. He is also ignoring me. The last man is someone I have never seen. He has a dark complexion and looks genuinely kind. For a moment, my heart flutters as he smiles at me. It has been a very long time since someone has done that with sincerity.

"This is she?" he says, addressing Raoul, who nods. "It seems," he continues, now looking at me, "that rumor of your talent has not been confined in the walls of your home. Forgive me, but I hoped you would indulge us for a little while. There is a piano over there."

A rush of blood floods my face, and I stumble over to the large piano. I have taken an unusual liking for music and have been taught for years, but I am still nervous as I sit down and lightly touch the ivory keys. Casting a glance toward the men who are all staring elsewhere, I quietly begin to play. It is a simple song that will hopefully relax my fingers and my heart, and, when I am finished, there is a smattering of applause, though it quiets quickly.

"I am sure that's not all," says the man. "You have a voice to show, from what I have heard."

It is not as if I could simply refuse. I could not get up, bid them a good evening, and return to my room. These are the most powerful men; I am trembling. So, again, I start with something easy. After a slow introduction, I join with my voice, timid at first, but then it grows comfortable as I lose myself in the piano.

_How like a winter hath my absence been  
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!  
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!  
What old December's bareness everywhere!_

I hope that this song will placate them; it is a praise song to the Oligarchy, one of the oldest and best-loved.

_And yet this time removed was summer's time,  
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,  
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,  
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease:_

I feel someone move behind me, yet resist the urge to look and continue toward the end.

_Yet this abundant issue seemed to me  
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,  
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,  
And thou away, the very birds are mute.  
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,  
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near._

The applause is much the same, but the kind man brings his hands together jovially.

"The rumors hardly do you justice!" he says, smiling around the room. "I do not believe I've ever heard something quite like that."

I allow a polite and thankful smile to cross my lips before looking at Raoul, unsure whether he wishes for me to stay or leave.

"That will do, Khan," says Philippe, looking at the man who is still bringing his hands together lightly. He stops but does not look abashed. Instead, he looks at me with even more interest.

"Come here," he says, and I do so, feeling more and more out of place and awkward. Keeping my eyes on the floor, I wait for…whatever it is he is going to do. "Look at me," he finally says, and, as I raise my eyes to meet his, I see Raoul on the couch move suddenly, as if to pull him away from me. Raoul seems to think better of himself and instead stands, watching intently.

"Look at this, Schurochka," says Khan, and the white-haired man stands from his seat to stare at my eyes, too. I try not to let a hard blush show, but it is sneaking up my neck, and I cannot stop it.

"It will not be passed on." Raoul finally speaks, and his voice is clipped and cold. "Brown will be the color of their eyes."

"Yes, I'm sure," says Khan distractedly. "Yet, even so…it is most unusual…_distinctive_, if you will."

"Speaking of this," says Schurochka, looking at Raoul, "how much longer will it be?"

"Not much," says Raoul at once. "She hasn't been here long, but I am hopeful. " His tone suggests that there is nothing more to discuss. He addresses me. "Christine, you are excused."

I thank him and hurry back to my room, trying not to think too much of what they discussed. Finally, I am able to close the door and take off my stuffy dress. Subconsciously, I glance at my stomach, as if expecting to see a large bump. But it is still flat and unoccupied. Somewhere in my head and heart, I am secretly thankful.


	4. Living

_Living_

Day by long day, I survive. It is much easier when I see Clara. We go to the gardens in the afternoon, taking refuge under the trees from the boiling sun. She is only herself when we are truly alone. If anyone is seen, she turns instantly back to the perfect doll, statue-like and serene. However, alone, she sprawls onto the grass, quite undignified, and speaks openly about everything. I ask her about this one afternoon. She has drawn her skirts up past her knees, complaining of the heat.

"I do not want to die," she says simply, playing with a heavy necklace that is draped about her neck.

Nervously, I laugh, but she looks at me, and I instantly stop.

"Surely you jest," I suggest half-heartedly. At this remark, she sits up and looks at me sternly.

"Christine, have I taught you nothing? We are married to powerful men. _The _most powerful men. They do not hesitate. They do not care. I would much rather prefer living to dying. If ever they found out about what I know and believe, I would be gone before anyone would realize."

She is quiet for a little while and finally resumes her position on the grass.

"Where did you come to realize this?" I ask. "That the Oligarchy is not what it seems?"

"Living among it has taught me," she says, "but it was my mother who opened my eyes first."

"Your mother?" The only thing my mother ever said about the Oligarchy was the divine power that it had, the grandeur and the respect it deserved, and the rights that they had to govern the people. It seems strange that a mother would tell her children something against the government. Clara sat up once again.

"My mother was not born here," she says quietly. "Not all people are like this – not everyone is under the rule of the Oligarchy. My mother came from a free place; she never mentioned where. She knew what it was like to live and speak how you wished without fear of punishment. But she was found by my father when she was nineteen. He forged papers and married her."

I knew she was thinking, and I was silent while she sat.

"When I was younger, I considered escaping to that place," she finally continues. "But she never told me where it was, or if it even still exists. I never even tried. I simply sat and wished. I…I could be free right now, but I will never know, because I never tried." Her voice was shaking, but her eyes were dry and her brow set. Then, slowly, she stood up, saying, "We should return."

As a faithful citizen under the rule of the Oligarchy, it is my duty to turn her in, to speak to Raoul of her insubordination and beliefs. But I will not. I will never be able to. Clara is my only friend. She speaks to me like an equal, someone to be confided in, and I cannot give that up now that I know what it feels like. And…I don't care very much. If she truly thinks what she does, I cannot change her, so why should I worry about converting her to the Oligarchy when I'm not sure I believe it myself?

The next night, Raoul does not come. I wait for a very long time and finally fall asleep. He does not come for another two nights, and I start to feel much better. But when he does come back, it only succeeds in making me morose and irritable once again. I do not know which I prefer: the fleeting happiness and crushing disappointment, or the continual, persistent discomfort.

I dine with Raoul, Clara, and her husband two or three times a week. It is always bothersome. I wear the dresses I loathe (those who lead me to the dining hall never let me leave in something different) and sit stiffly for thirty minutes to an hour at times. The only consolation is the fact that Clara and I are usually able to escape to the gardens for an hour or so.

One night, I hesitantly ask Raoul if I am able to play the piano – with permission, of course. He pauses by the door and looks back. I swallow and instantly regret saying anything at all.

"Of course," he says. "Whenever it pleases you."

It is as if a ray of sunshine pierces through dismal storm clouds. I play the next day, ignoring lunch and reveling in the familiar feeling of smooth ivory under my fingers. I do not play very well. I have much more talent with my voice, but I am still too shy here to display it without being asked, so I continue with my instrumental happiness.

One afternoon, I sit down to the piano. The sky outside is rainy and gray, and I am silent for a moment before I begin. The rumbling of the thunder creates a kind of thrill in the pit of my stomach. As I place my fingers on the keys, a shriek echoes around the house. For a very long while, I am completely still, listening, tense and alert. A dull _thud _sounds somewhere above me, followed by a distinct sob that is muffled. It does not take me long to distinguish the voice under the cries of pain.

I leap to my feet and run out in the hall. "Clara!" I say, finding a staircase and hurrying upstairs. "Clara!" She must have fallen, or perhaps someone was hurting her! The last thought spurs me on, and I try to find the room in which she is, but there are so many, and the cries seem to be coming from every single room. As I hurry down a hallway, someone steps out of a door and catches my wrist. I do not look for a moment and only struggle, saying angrily, "Let go of me! Let me go!"

When I turn, I see it is Raoul and fall still immediately.

"Come with me," he says. His voice is softer than it has ever been. I have no choice but to follow him, but I stupidly burst out,

"Clara is hurt! I can hear her crying. Does someone know? Is she being helped?"

There is a long pause, and Raoul says, "Yes, someone knows. She will be fine."

But I do not see Clara for two days. This in and of itself is not unusual; however, I am very anxious about her and I want to know that she is well. When I do see her, it is during dinner, and we do not speak, although I am practically aching to know what has happened to her. Finally, as soon as we are outside, I turn to her and open my mouth.

"Not here," she says quietly and quickly, and we make our way to the usual bench. The dying sun illuminates Clara's flawless skin, and she sits down, her lips pressed together tightly.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" I ask desperately. She looks, as always, perfect. Her expression, however, is strange as she looks at me.

"You do not know?" Her voice is incredulous, and I flush dully. With a sigh, she looks at the sunset and says, "Usually it isn't bad enough to make me cry out. It is only once or twice a month. He needs someone to release his anger on." She laughs bitterly. "And there I sit, unable to retaliate."

And it comes to me, horrible realization. I stare, unable to offer anything except my horrified gaze.

"Raoul has not started?" she questions, but she knows the answer. "He will. Soon."

"But why do you let him hurt you?" I grope desperately for some kind of light. "Why don't you react?"

"You know the answer to that, Christine." She sounds angry. "It is simply better to endure the few minutes of pain than to die."

As we go back toward the house, we are silent. I wonder if it is better to feel how I am feeling or to not feel anything at all.


	5. Visits

_Visits_

The days slip away, blending into each other with their bland and uneventful hours. Sometimes, I sit and stare out of the window in my room. If I look closely, I can see the outlines of the laborers' houses. Sometimes, I find myself imagining what it would be like to live among them. I can imagine young children running free. Although laborers have never been given the freedoms that we have, they have never been greatly oppressed. They are mostly let alone if they do what is required of them.

_Not unlike you_, whispers a voice in my head.

But I have _not _been let alone.

Someone finds me as I sit and play the piano. The golden sunshine has been covered with dark clouds, and I have lit candles to see the music in front of me. It is a corpulent man in black, and he looks nervous. I take my hands off the keys and wait while he fidgets momentarily.

"Your husband would like to see you," he says, his words rushed. "In his study."

Resisting the urge to sigh, I rise and make my way through the numerous halls. However, I cannot help but feel slightly curious. Raoul has never before called me to his study. I cannot think what it would be....Unless....

I flush at the thought and unconsciously bring my hand to rest on my flat, empty stomach. It has been months. I know they are impatient. Now anxious, I knock reluctantly on his door, and he opens it with a hurried, "Come in, come in."

He does not speak for a while. I stand in the middle while he rushes about me, transferring paperwork this way and that and snuffing a few candles. At long last, he turns to look at me, and his face is most peculiar. He looks very serious, but there is something that he cannot hide: embarrassment? Or fear?

"Christine," he finally says, "do you know _how _you know you are expecting?"

Heat rushes to my face; it is about what I suspected. "Yes," I say defiantly. He gestures for me to elaborate. "I...I will become ill...in the mornings," I say, but it does not sound as if I know anything at all. Raoul looks at me for another minute before turning around and saying,

"I have arranged a visit. An inspection, if you will, with a doctor who will be able to help you. He should be here now, actually. Someone will assist you in preparation and lead you to the right room."

He leaves quickly, and a tall woman with gray hair enters, carrying a bundle of clothing. The "preparation" is nothing more than a change of clothing, and I struggle into it. It is more or less a nightgown, but (I blush fiercely) there is hardly anything underneath. I look at the woman.

"Is this everything?" I ask. She nods. "Are you sure? Isn't there something missing?" She shakes her and looks at me with pointed anger before turning and leading me down the hall. I wrap my arms around myself protectively, high embarrassed and wishing to disappear into one of the many rooms. The room of which Raoul spoke is a small one, hidden away in an obscure hallway. It has a small, narrow bed and a chair. Raoul is already there, speaking with a man who I can only assume is the doctor. He smiles, but it is not friendly, and asks me to lie down. I hesitate for a moment but obey, climbing awkwardly onto the bed.

It is the most humiliating thing I have done thus far. I try not to listen as Raoul and the doctor speak openly, and I feel as if my neck is on fire and. After a minute, I feel chilly, bony hands wrap around my ankles. I close my eyes. The tears come and drip silently down into my ears. After a few minutes, though it seems much longer, the two men retreat to a corner of the room and mutter together while I try to grab some strands of dignity and privacy. The two come back and stand over me. I know the tears are still fresh on my face, but I am not ashamed of them.

"There is nothing wrong with you," says the doctor. "You are simply not trying. I've told your husband what to do."

The doctor begins to gather his things, and Raoul looks at me. "You may go," he says, and I scramble off the table, hurrying to my bedroom where I slam the door shut and dissolve into tears.

That afternoon, Clara and I walk through the gardens. She looks perfect, as always, but I have a distinct dirty, frazzled feeling. When we are alone, she looks at me.

"What is wrong?"

For a moment, I hesitate. "Nothing."

She stops short, turning to look at me. "Do not lie," she says, her voice angry. "I cannot stand lies! They're all around me."

It does not take long for me to sob to her; everything that has happened this morning I tell her, every thought, every feeling, and I sink onto the grass, burying my face in my hands. I am something disgusting, contaminated, something that should not be looked upon. Clara sits beside me and is silent, allowing me to cry.

"You have been here three months?" she finally says. I look up at her and nod, brushing away the tears. Clara bites her lip and looks at the ground. "I am not going to lie to you, Christine." Her voice wavers slightly. "That worries me. You know the whole purpose of your being here, do you not?"

I nod hastily, and she says, "Those who cannot...fulfill their purpose do not last long." She is quiet for a moment, and then says lowly, "I suppose you..._are _trying, aren't you?"

Outraged, I give a shriek-like laugh and glare at her. "Are there any other ways to lie down on a bed of which I'm not aware?"

She smiles abashedly, and, for one glorious moment, we both laugh.

----

My failures have been pushed aside momentarily. There are other things on their minds. Clara tells me all one night after a dinner. A member of the Oligarchy has been killed in response to treason.

"This happens all the time," she says quickly, seeing my horrified expression. "Why, just a month before you came, someone new was put in. But it has never taken them long to induct someone. I do not know why. We do not have to worry about our husbands." Her smile is grim. "Theirs is the real power. The Oligarchy is merely a sham to cover their control. Well, perhaps not Raoul so much," she adds after a moment of silence. "But he is easily impressionable. Philippe will make sure that he knows his place."

Two days later, our unasked question is answered. At dinner, Philippe addresses us during the meal for the first time.

"The Oligarchy has decided that it will now reduce its members to five. Six is simply too many; the Oligarchy cannot risk any more disloyalty from its own members."

"Their circle is growing tighter," says Clara later, looking very worried. "It is only a matter of time before Philippe and his supporters are in complete power. They are picking off one by one those who oppose complete power by one man. It will soon be a monarchy – a dictatorship. This is what the Oligarchy has opposed from the beginning. Its very foundation of belief was based on the fact that one single man cannot rule a million people." She gives one of her grim smiles. "This government has gone astray. It is turning against its own dogma – ruling the people with the people, the equality of rights, the building of a better society. It has been decaying for years, and now its true colors are showing."

I twirl a leaf between my fingers before saying, "Now, how do you think your husband would act if he heard you saying such dreadful nonsense?"

"Take her head off!" Clara shrieks, and we laugh, though I am not entirely sure that it was the right thing to do. Then again, I am not sure that anything we are doing is the right thing.


	6. The Epitomized Family

_The Epitomized Family_

For some miraculous reason, I see neither Raoul nor Philippe for a solid week. It is a very good week. I fall asleep smiling, sometimes, simply because I am the only one in the bed. Clara and I find each other after breakfast one morning and retreat to the farthest corner of the gardens. She is positively glowing, an outward expression of how I feel inside.

"You haven't seen them, either?" I ask happily, sitting down on the stone bench. Her smile falls momentarily, and she looks at me.

"What? Who? Oh – Philippe and Raoul. No, I haven't, but that isn't the good news." She sits next to me and takes a deep breath as if preparing herself for something. She bursts, "There has been a revolt."

"That – what?" I slide closer, as if the bench is listening.

"A revolt, Christine, a revolt! A very small one, actually, but it was there! Down in the laborers' village. They tried to attack a passing carriage." She beams at me, but I only stare, puzzled.

"So?" I say. Her expression makes me instantly regret saying anything at all.

"You don't understand what this means (obviously)! They wouldn't dare do that without being convinced to. This is probably the result of the Man with Half a Face…But you probably don't know who he is."

I strain my memory for a moment before saying slowly, "I think I heard my father say something about him…once. He's the rebel leader, isn't he? That's all I know."

She continues to look at me, but her gaze is filled with pity instead of incredulity. "Christine, honestly. How could you grow up in a house like the one you did and have no idea about…well, anything at all?"

"You know, I've actually thought about that." I smile at her. "When we first talked about the Oligarchy itself. I think I've come up with an answer. It seems my mother couldn't be bothered anymore with children. She was tired of them and didn't care anymore when I came along."

"How many are in your family?" Clara asks.

"I am number six of seven: four boys, three girls. My mother was lucky. She thinks that's why I was picked for the marriage." Clara bids me to continue. "Well, Dacian is the eldest. He is high up in the government – nobody is really sure what he does, but apparently he does it well. He has a wife and five children. I never knew him. He was off at school when I was born.

Aldous, the second oldest, was killed when he was eighteen. He joined the military. It was hard for my father. Aldous was his favorite; he still says so. Jalena was the first girl. She died in childbirth with her fourth child. Her husband remarried two weeks later, apparently. Taurin was my favorite sibling. He was killed during an ambush as his military group traveled south. Miriam is the next girl. She is ready to have her third child – she has probably already had it. I come next, and, finally, my brother Willard. He's at school. And…that's my family. I'm sorry if I bored you."

Clara frowns slightly. "That is the prime example of an Oligarchy family: have as many children as possible because most of them will be killed. Oh – I'm sorry, Christine! I'm so very rude and tactless. But it's very true. You only have three siblings left out of six."

We are silent for a very long moment. I turn to her and say, "How many are in your family?"

"My mother lived to have four children. The eldest ran off, then I came, the third died in the military, and both my mother and younger sister died of fever." She waves off my apologies. I then ask her how many children she has. "Four," she says promptly. "Two boys, two girls. I hardly ever see them. They are being educated away from me. The very worst thing about having children is seeing them. The best thing is the pregnancy."

I stare at her. "I always thought…it was the other way around," I confess slowly. "That pregnancy is bad, but having the children makes all the pain worth it."

Clara shakes her head. "When you see them, you only know that you will never see them again. I love my children dearly, but I have never been given an opportunity to be with them. We hardly know each other, and that, Christine, is because of to whom I am married. Your children will be the same way. We are the exception." For another minute, we are silent. "Being pregnant is wonderful," she says. "You are waited on hand and foot. You are never required to do anything you don't wish to. You feign tiredness, you can escape from those dreadful dinners. You are the only person occupying your bed. And you are no longer starved."

"We're not starved," I object.

She looks at me shrewdly. "No, but have you ever been able to eat as much as you want? To eat what you want?" When I am silent, she continues, "They press you constantly with food. That's what is required, you see. You need to produce healthy children, not small, sickly ones that will be more trouble than they're worth. Of course, the moment you have the baby you go hungry once again."

"You're quite cynical, did you know that?"

After a smile, she laughs. "I'm not sure which I prefer – being a cynic or being naïve."

"Apparently we go well together," I say.

"Yes, but you won't be naïve much longer," Clara says, and her face falls slightly. "I only hope that you retain the goodness and purity in your heart, Christine."

----

It does not take long for Raoul to return. When he does, he summons me downstairs. I find him in the room which holds the piano. He is sitting on the couch, half-slumping, looking haggard and pale. I make a small noise to announce my arrival and he looks up.

"Ah, Christine," he says. Even his voice is tired-sounding. "You must sing for me – please," he adds quickly. "I find your voice most comforting."

I do so, singing one song after the other. After a very long time, I dare to look at Raoul. He is asleep, his eyes closed and his head resting on his shoulder. Quietly, I rise from the bench and make my way toward the door.

"You may sit by me."

I jump and turn around. He was not asleep; he is now looking at me. When I take a seat beside him, he leans his head into his hands and sighs.

"I am very tired," he says finally, and his voice is muffled by his fingers. "It has been a dreadful week."

Trembling, slowly, as if my hand will be cut off for it (indeed, it is not out of the question), I raise it and hesitantly place it on his shoulder, hopefully a sign of comfort. He does not shrug it off.

"I'm not sure what he wants me to do," Raoul continues. "It's hard enough keeping them _here, _but to actually suggest – ! Well, never mind it now. We've got it controlled, but that doesn't mean it's over." My heart flutters momentarily, and I listen carefully, trying to pick apart his words. But Raoul says nothing more – he merely sighs and stands before looking at me.

"How have you been feeling this week? Ill?" His last question is somewhat hopeful.

"Oh – yes," I lie, and his face alights. "I am not sure, but I will know soon." The look on his face wipes away all traces of fatigue and sickness that he once had.

Clara, however, is not as pleased by my lie as I tell her what transpired the previous evening.

"Do you know how _dangerous _it is to play with something like that?" she hisses. "You've gotten his hopes up, and he will not be happy when you crush them. It's utter stupidity to lie like you did."

"I didn't really lie," I say defensively. "I told him I wasn't completely sure."

"It doesn't matter," she snaps. "You'd better hope it turns out not to be a lie."

I am not offended by her words. She has been irritable and frustrated all day. Last night, I heard cries coming from her room, a sure sign that Philippe returned with Raoul. I pressed my hands to my ears to block out her stifled shrieks.

But weeks later, my lie becomes evident to Raoul, who arranges more and more doctor visits. By my sixth one, I no longer care.

"Do you bleed regularly?"

"Yes," I answer tonelessly.

"Do you have any unusual aches or pains?"

"No."

"Any unexplainable illnesses?"

"No."

I do not think I would care half as much if not for Raoul. The disappointment on his face is quite hurtful sometimes. He asks me regularly to sing for him. Once or twice, he called me to his study simply to speak with me. I cannot say I was much for conversation, but I seem to have made him happier.

They call me to the piano again when many of the men are gathered. Once more, Khan is overly-enthusiastic and kind, and the pale-faced Schurochka remains moody and pensive. But I live solely for the hours with Clara and the quietness of my room in the early morning and late afternoon, where I can sit and embroider or sketch or simply think. Perhaps it might not have been too bad: a few unpleasantries, but far outweighed by quiet, good things.

It would not have been unbearable – except for the fact that I am still failing.


	7. The Departure

**Hey, thanks so much for all your support. Sorry I haven't been responding personally, but, again, if I had the time, I would. Please enjoy this chapter; it will probably something different than what you're expecting.**

* * *

_The Departure_

My room is not safe anymore. Everyone finds me there to call me to do something I dread – doctor visits, recitals, dinners. I have taken to hiding in the many rooms, bringing my embroidery with me. I know this plan will not work forever, but it has gotten me out of many things so far.

There has been no news of revolts or murders, but there is a distinct tension that runs around in the mansion. Clara is edgy and pensive, not at all like herself, and so I hide myself away more and more. Once, I dare to sneak into the private library to embroider. I begin, but I am too distracted by the books. Trembling, I set the materials down, walk over, and pull a book off the shelf. I open it, sit down, and begin to read.

_Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, for the husband is the head of the wife. Therefore as the husband is subject unto the Oligarchy, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing. Children, obey your parents: for this is right. That it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth. Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart._

Quietly at first, then growing louder, I hear Clara's cries from above me. I shut my eyes tightly at first, then open them and begin to read further.

_For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity. For I, the Oligarchy, know thee by name, and thou hast found grace in my sight. My presence shall go with thee. I will be gracious, and will shew mercy on whom I will shew mercy. Love me and serve me with all your heart and with all your mind. I shall rule over you. I am your rock and your fortress, your strength, in whom ye shall trust. Call upon me, who is worthy to be praised: so shall ye be saved from thine enemies. _

After a short while, the sounds stop, and I am very still for a moment before returning to my book. Before I can read anything, however, I hear the unmistakable sounds of heavy footprints. Swallowing a squeal of fear, I shove the book back and hurry toward the door before I remember the embroidery materials sitting on the couch. My stomach heaves with terror, and I reach over to grab them, but the door opens, and Philippe enters, looking murderous. There is a moment of shocked silence.

"I am so sorry," I gasp. His face becomes unreadable instantly. "I am so sorry – I merely wanted a quiet place to work. It will not happen again – I am sorry."

He waves his hand and says, "What have you been working on?"

Hesitantly, I pick up the fabric and show him. He fingers it and says, "Very good. You have a gift. It seems you are in possession of many unknown talents." There is a tense silence. His brows are furrowed; he seems to be in deep thought. I am unsure if he wishes me to leave. When I take the embroidery in my fingers, he does not relinquish its hold, so I stand quietly. Finally, he seems to come to a decision and looks at me. There is a hard look in his eye. My stomach drops, and I wonder if I am to be punished for entering the library. He approaches. I back away.

"Yes," he says, more to himself than to me. "It is best – if he cannot, I will." Suddenly, he grabs my wrist and does not let go, even when I pull.

"What are you doing?" I ask quickly, my voice high. "S – stop!" He is reaching for the ties of my skirt. When I struggle, I receive a sharp slap, and I stumble to the couch from the blow. He has still not released my wrist. In those terrifying moments, I do not care. I do not care that I at the mercy of the most powerful man in the country. I do not care that I could (and probably will) be killed if I continue to struggle.

"Shut up, you stupid girl!" he snarls. "_He_ cannot give you a child. I can. Our blood is the same. It will not matter. You should be thanking me! I am saving your life."

My hand falls on my embroidery materials, and I feel the hard, pointed needle. Without a second thought, I take it and pierce the soft skin that connects his thumb and index finger. He shrieks with pain and finally releases his grip. I dart through the door and do not stop until I am in my room, shivering and holding back sobs.

For two days I see no one. It is terrifying. I expect men to rush in and seize me any moment. I do not leave my room, afraid that I will see Philippe. The third day, I venture out to go to the piano, but, thankfully, see no one except a dumpy man in black, who is carrying polished candlesticks out of the room. That night, however, as I am readying myself for bed, the door opens. A look in the vanity mirror tells me it is Raoul. I turn and smile at him, but he does not return it. His face is twisted with an expression that speaks as if he had a knife twisting in his heart. I stand and approach him.

"Is something wro – ?" Before I can finish my question, a backhand sends me crashing to the floor, knocking over the vanity stool. I clutch my cheek and stare up at him, horrified. From my position on the floor, I can see Philippe in the doorframe, leaning on the doorjamb and looking very comfortable. Casually, he scratches his left hand, the one through which I stabbed the needle.

I try not to cry through it, but the strikes are painful, and I release an occasional whimper. Mostly I lie on the floor, closing my eyes and waiting for it to be over. When I open them, I look up to see Raoul crying, too, tears running silently down his cheeks. His face is turned away from the door. Our eyes meet, and he straightens with a shuddering gasp. They leave. When the pain eases to a harsh throbbing, my tears stop, and I crawl up into bed, crying out only once as my knee hits the bed frame.

It is hard to move from the bed the next day. I ache all over, and bruises have spread everywhere. I do not venture far and return to my room soon to fall back into the warm, comfortable sheets. The pain has lessened a great deal the second day, and I find Clara sitting in a parlor. Without a word, we both enter the gardens, heading to our favorite stone bench. But Clara walks past it, saying,

"I am afraid of someone tracing our habits. Come this way."

We go to a corner of the garden where it is not so well-kept. Clara takes refuge from the sun under a dying vine, and I sit in the grass, facing her. For a very long time, we are both silent.

"He tried, didn't he?" she asks bleakly. "Philippe. I knew he would soon. It wasn't exactly a secret: the way he looked at you, how he acted when in your company."

"Yes – he tried –but I didn't, Clara! I couldn't!" I grab her hand, desperately trying to keep my one friend. "Please, Clara, how could I ever?" When she continues her silence, I say, "I stabbed him with a needle instead. Right here."

What she says next surprises me. "You – stabbed him with a needle?" She suddenly giggles. "That's probably why he is so cross! Oh, Christine, did it hurt him terribly?"

I nod, smiling, but Clara's face falls. "You…you will be punished for this. Do you realize that?"

"I already have," I say, and I describe what happened two nights ago. When I finish, Clara suddenly hugs me. It has been a long time since someone has embraced me platonically, and I cannot help but smile along with her.

----

It is a very long time before I see Raoul again. He comes on a very ordinary night. I am turning down the sheets when he walks in and closes the door softly behind him. I sigh with morbid relief inwardly – there is no gloating Philippe to encourage him. It will not be as humiliating with just Raoul. But when I see him fully, I know he is not here to harm me.

He is very, very unkempt. His dark hair is tousled, and his eyes are tired. They look much older than they did the first time I saw them. His clothes are distinctly rumpled and somewhat dirty. He looks thin, as if he has not eaten in a while, and his cheeks and chin are darkened with stubble.

We do not say anything, but he gently holds me for the first time that night. He rests his forehead on my shoulder and sighs heavily. He seems so dejected and heartbroken, I cannot help but forgive him and say hesitantly,

"Can I ease your trouble?"

Raoul sits up and rubs his face before turning and smiling softly at me.

"No," he says quietly. "But thank you." And he leaves.

Clara and I speak in the late afternoon. The hot sun presses down upon us, and I feel my pale skin flush with the heat. As the sun illuminates her face, I see, for the first time, something that mars her smooth skin. It is a dull, ugly bruise that stands out against her cheek. She dismisses my questions quickly.

"There have been some problems down in the villages," she says. "Philippe is frustrated – and, of course, the fact that you stabbed him is still bothering him." A smile graces her lips, making the bruise less pronounced. "I think things are starting to move, Christine. There have been too many problems. Something will happen soon."

Instead of inquiring further about the problems, I instead ask, "How in the world do you know so much about all of this? Surely Philippe doesn't let you know!"

"Christine, have you even _attempted_ to speak with anyone other than Raoul or myself?" When I shake my head, her smile widens just little. "The servants know much more than you think they do – much more than they think is important, anyway. Little favors go a very long way in the mansion."

We finally return when the sun disappears. After bidding each other good night, we go our separate ways. But I am unable to get to my room. A woman in black finds me and tells me I am required in Raoul's study. Instead of speculating, which I usually do, I instead walk with weariness and enter his cluttered room. He offers me a seat and takes the one opposite. I wait in an uncomfortable silence. Raoul seems perfectly serene. He has his usual half-smile and is looking out of the window that is in the wall on his left. I doubt that he knows about Philippe. But what would he do if he did know? Was what Philippe did permitted? I made a mental note to ask Clara about it. Even if it wasn't allowed, Philippe would still go without a reprimand.

After a very long time, Raoul dismisses me. I wish to ask him what he had called me for in the first place, but I instead return to my room and quickly fall asleep.

The weather is gray and gloomy when I wake up. A chill sweeps around the mansion, and the rain starts in the late morning, confining me to the house. The doctor waits for me after lunch, and, after that, I hurry down to the piano. The rain lashes against the wide windows; I watch it while sitting on the bench before playing. Not long after, Raoul comes into the room.

"No, no," he says, when I rise, "continue." He sits down in one of the chairs and listens to me for a very long time before leaving. He is being most peculiar. I lie quietly that night and wonder if it is his worry over the recent disturbances that have him acting so differently. Then again, I have not known Raoul long enough to say that I can name his habits. Perhaps he has always been this way.

But, nevertheless, a few days slide by. I see neither Clara nor Philippe in my wanderings – I am thankful for avoiding the latter, but I wish to speak with Clara. I am called for dinner one night, and, for once, I look forward to it. But I am disappointed. Clara is not there, but Philippe is. I spend an awkward evening in their company. When I am finally dismissed, I hurry up to my room and – it is a night for firsts – hope that Raoul comes.

I am sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the door when he enters. After he shuts the door and approaches, I say,

"Where is Clara?" He stops short, but I continue quickly, "I haven't seen her the past few days. I – I was just wondering, is all."

There is a long moment of silence, and he fidgets uncomfortably. "Well – I had thought you'd known," he stammered before sighing. "Christine, Clara is…gone."

"Gone?" I repeat suspiciously. My insides are being doused with ice, and I fight for some warmth, a reassurance. I am mistaken in my thoughts. "When will she be back?"

He looks at me, his gaze full of pity. "She's not coming back, Christine. She's dead."


	8. The Man with Half a Face

_The Man with Half a Face_

Dead.

It is so absolute, so final. There is no question, no way to go. The word rings in my head without me understanding the meaning. Dead. _Gone_. She was the one who wanted to live! She sacrificed her entire life so she could continue to breathe, think, feel…And now she cannot anymore. All of her façade was in vain.

I cannot remember all of the conversation I had with Raoul on that horrible night.

"_How_?_" _I remember asking.

"…_found last night…doctor…cardiac arrest…Christine, I…"_

I can see him leaving the room, but, after that, I only see blackness. I cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot feel, and I am drowning in this…_pain_, this unbearable pain. Is this what it always feels like to lose someone close to you? And, if so, is it worth it to be close to someone if you must eventually feel empty and hurt?

For days I am stoic. I go where I am called. I eat. I drink. I sleep. But I cannot remember the last time I have spoken, or laughed, or thought. It is hard think that I am, once again, alone. I remember crying at the thought. To have the taste of human companionship and then have it taken away is cruel and unnecessary. A hatred burns in my heart for Philippe – but I cannot bring myself to hate Raoul. He seems sorry to see me like this. He speaks quietly with me and requests a recital one evening, but it does not last long.

Days go by. The gardens remain, but Clara will never walk in them. The wind is picking up. It blows fiercer every day, keeping me indoors. I look outside quietly and try to disappear.

"Christine?"

It is Raoul. I turn and acknowledge him before going back to the window. He comes to stand next to me. When his hand rests on my back, I jump in surprise, but, after that, neither of us move. We stand silently side by side, looking out of the window into the trees. They are whipped around by the harsh wind. It is howling in my ears.

The doors burst open, and we turn in unison. "Raoul!" says Philippe. "Come. We are away to the Capitol."

After pressing my shoulder lightly, Raoul disappears through the door, and Philippe snarls at me for a moment before following his younger brother. I remember Clara laughing at Philippe and his stupidity, and I smile.

The sun is sinking, pushed away by the wind, and I follow suit, moving toward _my_ sleeping place. My pain has resided to a dull thud, making it possible to sleep, and I do so, exhausted by the insomnia from which I have suffered.

_A baby cries, but I cannot find it. Its screams penetrate my brain, and I look desperately, weaving in and out through tall hedges while the dying sun shines brightly on me. I see Clara, but she does not speak and instead drifts away, and I begin to cry alongside the child, searching for – _

A hand is on my shoulder, shaking me roughly, and my eyes snap open. I have not been asleep long. I can see the wax from the candle is still liquid and warm. Two men are above my bed, towering over me, and I open my mouth to scream. One of them, however, places his hand over my mouth, hissing,

"Silence! We've come to take you out of this place by order of your husband." When I sit stupidly for another minute, the other one takes my arm and literally pulls me out of the bed, saying, "Come, hurry up! This must be done quickly."

They will not let me change, but they do allow me to pull on a shawl. The men shoot down my questions and stand on either side of me before opening the door and leading me into the dark, quiet hallway. I am still having trouble rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and I stumble along.

"Where am I going?" I ask, looking at the one man on my right side, who has a clean-shaven, healthy-looking face, though his expression is grim. "Where are you taking me?" They remain silent. "Where has Raoul instructed that I go? And for what reason? Answer me!" It the first time that I have given a command like that, yet I expect them to answer. They do not.

We meet no one in the halls or rooms. With each step I am more awake, and my brain begins to work properly. I am struck by a horrible thought; I have not fulfilled my purpose. They have come to dispose of me. I am following Clara. Before I can struggle, the white-haired, pale man – Schurochka – steps out of the door on the left. For a very long time, no one speaks. The men simply stare at each other in apparent shock and surprise. Then –

"_Intrusion! Traitors! Kidnap! Murder!_" Schurochka screams with such volume I have never heard, and my stomach is plummeting. Before he can get another word out, however, a man rushes onto him, and I am not able to see what happened until Schurochka doubles over, his eyes wide. As the man draws away, I see blood pouring out of Schurochka's body. It is everywhere – so much of it, red, glistening, alive, and I stare as he falls to his knees, looking at the pool of it as if unable to believe it came from his chest. Then, with a light sigh, he falls to the ground, the blood growing around his body. I find my knees giving way and bile rising in my throat. These men will kill me, and red blood will gush from my body. I am quite unable to walk; they seize my arms and drag me to the courtyard, where a cool night wind blows. Something heavy and dark is thrown over my face. The only thing I can think of is the blood, and I imagine myself next to Schurochka. It does not seem to matter anymore where I am going. I will be dead wherever I go. Unceremoniously, they pick me up and place me on a horse. A man swings up behind me and holds me; I do not seem to be able to support myself.

As we ride, I can hear faint screams in the distance, coming from the house. The jostling of the horse keeps me from passing out, but I sorely want to. The streets are quiet as we pass, and the black night presses into me, into my red blood....I suddenly run my hands up and down my chest and abdomen, making sure that nothing is spilling from me. All my blood is still safely inside. Perhaps if I ask, they will kill me in a way that does not involve blood.

It does not take long to get to wherever we have gone. The horse lurches to a stop, and I nearly fall off. The other man hurries over and helps to pull me from the horse and drag me inside a clean-smelling building. They mutter hurriedly to each other before opening a door. Whatever is covering my face is taken away quickly. A burst of bright light washes over me, and I close my eyes against it. The light will illuminate my blood, whereas the dark will swallow it up. I am placed onto a comfortable chair, where I slouch over. Men are speaking quickly, sounding worried. Someone else enters, but I no longer care what they speak about or where I am. As long as it is done quickly, I will say nothing.

Someone approaches me and lifts my head. My eyes do not focus.

"Shock," says a voice, and I am left alone. "Bring something for her. He will need her to be conscious."

After a minute, my head is lifted again, and a glass is pressed to my lips. "Drink this, Christine," says a kind voice, and burning hot liquid is poured into my mouth. It scorches my throat, and I cough horribly. However, my vision is soon improving and my head clearing. I can see that I am in a comfortable-looking sitting room. Five or six men are grouped together, looking at me, and another is taking the glass back. I recognize no one except...Nadir Khan. Relief floods over me. I will not die. Raoul did order me to be sent away; something must have happened.

"Where am I?" I ask, my voice hoarse and weak.

"My home," says Khan. He looks kindly at me, but his gaze is mixed with worry.

"Why am I here? What has happened?"

Khan looks hesitant. "The…the Oligarchy has been overthrown, Christine. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," I snap, irritated by his treatment of me. Everyone is silent for a very long time. "Is…is Raoul safe?" I finally ask. "Who has done this? Have they reached the Capitol?"

"Yes, they have reached the Capitol. The new government is in place."

"Is Raoul safe?" I demand quietly. The men look at each other, their faces blank. Quite suddenly, the door opens, and a new man walks in.

He is tall – much taller than anyone I have ever seen, and his frame is lean. His clothing is distinguished and fine, but rumpled, as if he has slept in them. Dark, thick hair shines brilliantly in the dim light, and he turns to look at Khan. I swallow a gasp. A white, cold-looking mask hides the right side of his face.

"Everything has gone according to plan?" he says. His voice is rich and…beautiful, but also commanding, and I know that he is not a man from whom demands cannot be made. All the men nod hurriedly, and his eyes slide over to me. The corner of his lip curls slightly (for his entire mouth is exposed).

"Good," he says. "I will be waiting downstairs."

As he turns to leave, Khan takes his shoulder, and the man with the mask turns and looks down at him. Khan speaks, but I know he wishes to keep his voice low.

"She – she doesn't know. She has no idea." I do not know _what_? I cannot stand one more minute of being kept in the dark. I cannot stand being ridiculed and treated like an animal. I hate having only one purpose and being unable to fulfill it. I feel tears swim in the corner of my eyes, but when the tall man's eyes come back to me, I blink the tears back, determined not to show him.

"Well, you must educate her," he says, and his eyebrow rises. "I will give you ten minutes, Khan. Please do not be late. You know how crucial this is."

He leaves, and Khan turns to the room. He dismisses the men with a wave of his hand and comes to sit next to me.

"Christine," he says, "do you know who that man is?"

I nod mutely, exhausted beyond measure and confused beyond belief. It is the Man with Half a Face…but what is he doing here in Khan's home? And where is Raoul?

"He is the man who has taken over the Oligarchy. But it cannot be complete, Christine, without one thing. To make his rule complete and unquestionable, he needs one more thing – you."

My eyes snap up instantly. "He – he needs to kill me?" I choke out.

Khan shakes his head. "No, Christine. He needs to marry you."


	9. Hardly Different

_Hardly Different_

I am scrambling to the corner of the room, feeling caged and trapped.

"Christine," Khan says, approaching me, "you are the only way. Philippe has no wife. Do you understand? The law says that if a member of the Oligarchy dies and his wife does not have a son, the man who next marries her will inherit the member's station. Don't you see, Christine? This is a quiet takeover. There is no need for war and bloodshed when it can be done so much quicker and much more quietly."

"You…you have been against the Oligarchy the entire time?" I say, my voice more of a whisper.

He nods. "For a very, very long time. I have been lucky enough to rise through power undetected."

We are silent for a moment. I am trying to absorb all the information and comprehend.

"You do not need to worry," Khan assures me. "Your marriage will be hardly different from your previous one." There is hesitation in his voice as he says, "Did you know, Christine…that you were being considered for eradication? We have saved your life. You only lived as long as you did because of your husband's continuous plea for your survival." When I question him with a glance, he continues. "Yes, he was always appealing for a few more months, but his luck had started to run out."

I do not want to think anymore. All I want is a warm bath and to sleep for eternity in lovely white sheets. After a moment, Khan heads toward the door.

"Our time is gone, Christine. Do not be concerned. You will learn. Follow me, please."

This house is much, much smaller than the mansion. It is only down one flight of stairs to a single hallway. We go through the door on the right. I shiver and clutch my shawl tightly. There is the man with the mask, looking out of a window into the black night. Another man is in there, looking quite as out-of-place and frightened as I am feeling. He looks vaguely familiar, and I stretch my memory. The masked man turns when we enter and grabs my arm. His fingers are long and bony – like the doctor's, and I shudder. I am placed next to him. There is complete, pressing silence for a very long time. And then, the frightened man begins to speak. As he does, realization dawns upon me. It is the same man who performed the marriage all those months ago: the same man with his dark eyes. I feel my knees give way, but the man next to me is still gripping my arm, and he jerks me up slightly, clearing his throat in a significant manner.

I do not have to say anything again, but a piece of paper is thrust into my hands, and I sign it with shaking fingers.

"I will finish up here," says the man. "Nadir, would you mind escorting her upstairs?"

Khan takes my arm and pulls me out of the room. We are both at a loss for words, it appears, for he says nothing as he leads me up the stairs. I notice his hand is pressed hard against my back to keep me from falling.

The room to which he takes me is small and simply furnished. After pressing my hand in what he hoped was a comforting way, he leaves, but no sooner is the door shut than opened again. Four women tumble in quickly, speaking in hushed voices and bustling about. Finding myself unable to stand steadily, I take a seat on the bed. The women pull me up, however. I suppose I am lucky that there are women there to help me. I cannot hold anything without dropping it, and I am so confused and terrified that I can barely pull on a fresh nightgown by myself. They hold me up, speaking useless things and brushing my hair. I stare blankly at the wall. How shall I be able to stand the rest of my life? How can I sit here while every inch of me is screaming for escape?

I will never know what escape tastes like, because the door opens. The women scatter quickly, leaving me to stand there, trembling fiercely. I feel very ill. Now that there is decent light, I am able to study him more closely. When he looks at me, I swallow a gasp of surprise. His eyes are not brown. They are a most peculiar color – almost a green, but there are more colors. If I had to place a color on them, I would say gold, but eyes cannot be gold. Nevertheless, they are beautiful and stare at me. _My_ eyes wander over his mask for the hundredth time. White, bitter, and blaring out of the rest of his face. The exposed half is not unpleasant-looking. It is accented sharply by high, proud cheekbones and a thin mouth. He shuts the door behind him.

"Good evening," he says courteously. I say nothing. After a minute, he approaches me and takes my hand; his are large, bony, and cold. They remind me again of the doctor's hands. I shiver and pull away. I do not care. Death would be more reassuring than this. Death would have a final, decided outcome. This, however...this goes too many ways for me to see.

His eyebrow arches after I do this, but he does nothing. "Sit," he says, gesturing to the bed. More than the unwillingness to have my knees give way than obey him, I do so. He sits beside me, and the mattress sinks under his weight. He is heavier than he looks.

"It is strange," he says after a while, "that when words are most important, they cannot be found. You may ask me anything you like, Christine. I do not wish for you to be afraid."

Thousands of questions tumbled over in my mind. "Who are you?" I finally say. I keep my eyes on the carpet and my feet.

"My name is Erik," he says. When I say nothing, he breaks the silence, saying, "Christine, I know you must be very scared – "

"I'm not scared!" I lie forcedly, my voice a little louder than normal, and a dull blush stains my cheeks. Now he is silent, and I say, "D – did you kill Clara?"

He seems interested in this question. "Who is Clara? Her name is familiar."

"Philippe's wife."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smile grimly. "Ah, yes, Clara…But no, we did not. It was Philippe, and, of course, that little stunt stopped us for a while."

"Stopped you?" I interrupt.

"Well, as Philippe was the head, it was natural for us to need to gain his position. But, as he had no wife to speak of, we went for our next choice – you. And, once we realized that you had no children, it was then known to be the right choice." He shifts next to me, and I feel one of his hands touching my shoulder lightly.

"Is Raoul dead?" My voice is the quietest it has been.

There is silence. "Yes." After another moment, he rises and begins to snuff the candles. The darkness soon envelops us, and I cannot control the small, shivering gasps that come from my mouth. In those moments, I hate everything I am. I hate my parents for creating me. I hate those who arranged my marriage. I hate the Oligarchy for not killing me. I hate Khan for his loyalty to this – this _man_. And I hate him! I see his tall outline in the dark. He comes closer. I move away. He kneels on the bed. I cower at the headboard, clutching my new, clean-smelling nightgown with terror. As I feel him approach, I close my eyes.

But something completely unexpected happens. Something touches my lips, and I jerk away in surprise. As my vision adjusts to the dark, I can see that his brow is furrowed. He bends down once more, and I watch. It is _his _lips that touch mine, and I am still. It is strange for a moment, but soon I am overwhelmed by this incredible _feeling _that I have never experienced before. I pull away, gasping,

"What are you doing to me?"

He sounds very irritated. "Kissing you. Do you know what a kiss is?"

"Well – yes," I pant, the waves of that unnamed emotion rolling through me. "But I've never – and I feel strange…"

Erik sighs. "He never kissed you?" I shake my head, but, as I am doing so, I remember that it is very dark. However, Erik doesn't seem to need the light, for he shifts closer and says, "They have completely driven that part away?"

"They?" I say. "What part? Driven what away?"

I feel his fingers press against my mouth, and I am silent at once.

"Tilt your head back," he instructs. "I will show you."

Warily, I obey him, and am soon glad that I did. It is like waking up to something I have never seen and adoring it instantly. I do not know what to do except sit and feel him kiss me. His lips are hard, and they do not seem to need my cooperation. I allow him to do whatever he pleases, for wave after wave of that feeling is crashing through my stomach, and it is wonderful. And what I once thought of as loathsome and tedious becomes enthralling and tantalizing. It is not long before I am reaching for him, anxious for his touch, his kiss, and everything else is wiped from my mind. I cannot remember what happened only a few hours ago, nor the fear that accompanies the thought of the future. All that I can think of is him and his lips and cool hands and his mask. It is hard and it presses into my cheek constantly. Whenever I open my eyes, I can see it there, a white flag in the black.

I cannot remember falling asleep. The last thing I remember is kissing his exposed cheek – the first kiss I have ever given to anyone. But soon I am waking, still exhausted and aching beyond belief. Pale sunlight is coming through the windows, and someone is moving next to me. Hurried words are gradually coming into focus as I blink away the sleep.

"…_Couldn't find him anywhere…everywhere in chaos_."

A voice close to me – a full, musical one – replies, "And he is aware he is missing something?"

"Oh, yes. That's the reason for half of the chaos."

There is silence, and Erik is still moving. I turn slowly to see him pulling on boots, his back to me. Another man is in the room, and I feel a hot blush rising from my neck. He, however, doesn't seem to notice me and keeps his dark eyes on Erik.

"Of course," says Erik, rising from the bed, "with Philippe dead it will be much easier. I suppose it's not an entire loss."

"From what I have gathered, the younger brother is easily impressionable. It will not take long."

"It better not," snaps Erik. "Do you realize the situation we've put ourselves in?"

They begin to leave the room. Before they do, however, Erik turns to me and says, "Get up, quickly, and dress. I will send someone down for you."

And he shuts the door.


	10. Needs and Questions

_Needs and Questions_

I want to cry. I…I _should _cry. I deserve to cry after the past twenty-four hours. But I cannot. The full blast of the sun finds me changing quickly. My head is pounding. I need more rest. There is the part inside me, however, that forbids crawling back into that bed, and it builds up determination and anger with each second that passes.

Soon, I am in a rage the likes of which I have never felt. I am angrier than I have ever been, and I hasten from the room, swallowing hot tears as I begin to look for the door. Most are open, thrown wide to allow sunlight to bathe the hallway. The door closed, however, looks suspicious, and I push it open.

Most of my resolve drains as a room full of tall men turn to look at me. They are all huddled up around a desk, their quick whispers stopping as I enter. I see _Erik_ sitting in the midst of them, his white mask shining from the sea of flesh. His eyes meet mine coolly. I stare back, determined not to break his gaze.

"What do you need?" he says, his voice unconvincingly polite. "Is the breakfast not to your liking?"

Several of the men laugh, and I feel myself flush angrily. "I need answers," I snap. I am unsure if my voice is as steady as I would like it to be, but I do not quail. "I will not wait any longer."

He is unperturbed by my impatience and says lazily, "You seemed content to wait last night."

Now _all _them men are laughing, and I am trembling with anger. "Stop!" I say. "I will not be treated like some ignorant child! You will not humiliate me simply to impress your…friends. You do not frighten me – that mask does nothing but irritate me!"

I have crossed a forbidden line when I mention his mask. All mild amusement is erased from his face, and he stands and crosses over to me, so quickly and smoothly that I do not know he is by me until his large hand grasps my upper arm. Instantly, he steers me out of the room and slams the door behind him. I know that I am in very deep trouble, but, somehow, I cannot bring myself to care.

He pushes me into a small room and shuts the door before looking at me, his eyes blazing with anger. When I see them, I suddenly begin to care very much about the situation in which I'm in. His eyes are enough to make me shrink to the undersized couch.

"How _dare _you!" he hisses. "How dare you come here and expect to be waited on, sympathized with, and comforted!"

"I didn't 'come' here," I say shortly before I can stop myself. "I was abducted. I assure you, I didn't ask for this."

His fists are balled and his knuckles white. "I do not care what you asked for," he says, his voice still sharp. "I will not allow you to parade around this house as if you are the master." He silences me with his hand when I open my mouth. "I _will_, however, give you thirty minutes after dinner tonight. Until then, stay in your room."

----

I do stay in my room, simply because I did not want to see his eyes flashing like that again. It is a small room, not much to explore, and much, much, _much _less extravagant than my old one. The bed is not a four-poster or a canopy. It is simply a…bed. The room consists of one window – ugly cotton curtains – a chest of drawers with many unknown bottles on top, a closet, and a couch that is stuffed into the corner, mismatching the rest of the wood and looking very out of place. The closet has only three dresses – a blue one, a green one, and a hideous purple one that I am sure I will never wear, even if I must parade around in my underwear. Quite suddenly, I sigh. The drawers are filled with lace-less chemises, pantaloons, petticoats, and other such commodities. I finger the fabric dully, the coarseness strange against my skin.

A woman enters my room sometime later – one of the women I saw last night. She is carrying a lunch tray and sets it on top of my chest of drawers, pushing aside the bottles. Her black dress is plain. She turns around and smiles at me before saying, "Good afternoon, Madam. I brought your lunch."

It is hard not to stare at her; she speaks to me from her own free will, and this is not expected from someone dressed in black. I can barely stammer a "good afternoon" back before she leaves. After I eat, I fall asleep for a few hours. I blush slightly at the reason of my sleepiness, but it does not prevent me from sleeping well and waking up refreshed. There is no dinner dress to change in to, so I merely readjust my hair and smooth out the wrinkles in my current dress.

But if I expect to impress someone, I am disappointed. I am the only one at the dinner table, which seats four. The kind lady who served my lunch also led me to the dining room, and now she puts a plate before me. For a very long time, I simply look at it, unable to believe what my eyes see. For the first time in my life, I am unable to see the bottom of the plate. It is laden with food – fried potatoes swimming in hot gravy, boiled vegetables, sliced pears, thick, hot buttered bread smeared with bright red jam, and a large slab of pork steaming on the side. Without much ado, I eat it all and soon find a disagreeable and yet peculiarly pleasant feeling: I am completely full for the first time. Now I understand what Clara meant when she said that the infamous "they" starve me. I wonder how I will be able to stand being hungry after eating now that I've experienced this. The kind lady takes my plate away and puts down _another_, this one a bowl full of creamy white soup. I cannot eat it. The minute I pick up a spoon, my stomach squirms uncomfortably, and I push the bowl away.

"Oh," says the lady, coming and taking it away. "Is chowder not to your liking? Shall I bring something else? Beef, perhaps, or onion soup?"

"No, thank you," I say quickly. "I am quite finished."

As soon as she leaves, someone else enters. It is him – Erik – and he scowls at me for a moment before saying, "Are you finished yet?"

I frown, saying, "Yes," and I stand quickly. He leaves, and I follow him, all the questions coming back to my mind, crowding out the rest of my thoughts. We go to a new room; it is a study of some kind. The ten books of the Oligarchy sit, gathering dust, on a small table. A magnificent piano crowds most of the room. Erik leans against it and points to a chair, on which I sit. We sit in an awkward silence. I look at his hands and grow warm as I remember where they were last night.

"Well?" he says. "You have questions. I have answers. Ask."

"I – " Nothing comes out for a minute, and I struggle with my questions before saying feebly, "Who are you?"

His eyebrow rises. "I am Erik."

"I know your name," I explain quickly. "But…I don't know who you _are_."

"And why should you want to?"

I say nothing, instead choosing to raise _my _eyebrows and glare at him. He sighs. "I am a man, such as they are. I breathe. I think. Is that good enough for you?"

Deciding to ignore his last question, I ask him my next one. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This – all of this. Why have you destroyed the Oligarchy? What purpose is there? Do you wish for the power that they have?"

His lips thin at my last question, and he says, very coldly, "No. I do not want their corrupt power." After a minute, he takes a seat, tense and irritated, in the chair that faces me. "Christine," he says, "I am not doing this for myself. I am not doing it for the men that are in the next room. I am not doing it for you, or for the Oligarchy. I am doing this for the people. Yes – the people, Christine! You, who have grown up with everything…you simply cannot comprehend. Have you seen the laborers' village?"

"I could see their houses from my window at the mansion. Sometimes," I add hastily.

Those long, bony fingers press together, and he is quiet for a minute. "Then you will not understand why I am doing this. Those people have nothing, save the clothes on their back. They hardly have enough to feed themselves, let alone their families. The Oligarchy presses them for every bit of food and goods they produce. They starve and do nothing about it because they do not know what to do! There is no education, no progress, and their children grow up twice as ignorant. The ideals of the Oligarchy have crumbled."

Trying to process this all and still have room for more answers, I ask, "And you will set up a new government? A better one?"

He gives something like a shrug. "I would be doing this if it was any government. It would not matter if this was a parliament, a dictatorship, a monarchy, a republic – I would have destroyed it nonetheless. But, seeing the government had true intentions, I see no reason to completely reform. We will put in men who are true and watch them closely. Those kind of men still exist, no matter what anyone thinks."

Neither of us say anything for a few minutes. His fingers reach for the piano and skim over its smooth, black surface, and I watch them.

"This morning," I say finally, and his golden eyes snap back to me, "you said something about a…a situation. What happened last night?"

"We have put ourselves into a delicate condition," he says evenly, though his exposed features harden, looking as rigid as the mask that rests on his face. "Philippe was killed, but by the time my men had gotten to his brother's room, someone had seen Philippe and raised the alarm, and he was nowhere to be found."

I raise an eyebrow. Even to _me _the plan sounds rough and unsteady, and I wonder why he hadn't developed a better plan.

"We weren't counting on it, I assure you," he says, stretching back in his chair, similar to a long, sleek cat. "There wasn't enough time to count on it. With no wife, we thought his bedroom would be empty. But evidently someone had entered it while my men searched for the brother."

"So – so Raoul is alive?" My stomach churns as he nods.

"You can see how fragile this is. Seeing as we were married yesterday and – ah – _carried out _the vows, we are wed by law. But you are still wed to your former husband by law, and he is now head of the Oligarchy. The rest of them have been eliminated. He will quickly set up a new group."

My head is aching, and I stare at him, unable to believe what he has told me. He stands and heads to the door, saying, "The time is up. Good evening." And he leaves.

I sit on the chair for a very long time, thinking, staring, waiting…Raoul is alive. Philippe is dead. Clara is dead. I am alive. I am married. The sun casts long shadows as it disappears. I stare at the piano longingly, wishing for the comforting sounds of music to soothe me.

When the stars are twinkling and everything is still, I continue to sit on the chair. I cannot find determination to move. Bright moonlight illuminates the room. It is very comforting, and I feel myself slump onto the armrest, my entire frame weary. Sighing, I curl into a comfortable position and give myself up to sleep.

----

The night is still present when I am woken. Something hard is pressing onto my shoulder, and I pull myself awake, moaning slightly as my restricted muscles ache. I soon realize it is Erik's hand. He is standing beside me, his fingers touching me. For a minute, we stare at each other. He has come to take me back up to the bedroom. I wonder if I should tell him that I am unable to fulfill my one purpose.

His appearance is much less harsh than it was hours ago. He has shed his dark, strict coat and vest, trading it in for a loose-fitting white shirt. The dark hair is rumpled and hangs about his ears. And there is something in his face, too, that suggests he is not as harsh and commanding as he was.

"You are sleeping here?" he asks. His voice is soft, like it was the night before. I shake my head and rub my neck as it cricks.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice a whisper. "I fell asleep. I'll return to the bedroom."

When I stand, I sway slightly, my legs asleep from their confined position on the chair. They buzz angrily, and I stumble toward the door, my eyes and head still swimming with sleep. Something touches my back lightly, and a presence tells me it is Erik's hand. He guides me down the hall. I am too tired…I don't want him to come to my bedroom…

But as soon as I am in the room, he leaves and shuts the door quietly behind him. With a sigh, I sink into the bed and think no more.


	11. Things Lost

_Things Lost_

Once again, my plate is overflowing the next morning. I can only eat half of it; my stomach is still used to small portions, and soon the sizzling bacon and crisp biscuits make me feel ill. When the kind lady comes to take my plate, I stand and follow her to the kitchens. It is small and steaming. There are only four others in the kitchen, all women. They look healthy and much happier than those at the mansion. I stand, waiting, in front of the large wooden table that is strewn with fruit and raw meat. A few ladies bump into me in their haste to do something or the other, and they quickly excuse themselves. After a while, a woman turns to me.

"Are you still hungry, Madam?"

Frowning slightly, I shake my head and look expectantly at the table. Where is the tray for Erik?

"Do you need something, Madam?" asks another woman.

"Yes," I finally say, placing a hand on the table. "I am wondering where the tray is."

"The tray?" she repeats.

"Yes, the tray," I say, growing slightly impatient. "The breakfast tray for my husband. I must deliver it to him."

They exchange quick glances, and one says hesitantly, "He never eats breakfast, Madam."

I feel a very quick irritation growing inside. "I do not care," I say. "I deliver his breakfast. That is what I do. Even if he doesn't eat it, I must give it to him." I don't know why I feel so strongly about this. Perhaps it is because this gives me some purpose other than my first one. I am good for something other than children. And so I wait restlessly while they fix up a tray, shooting anxious glances at me. When at last it is set before me, I pick it up and ask, "Where is he?"

"He is usually in the study," one woman says. I turn and make my way through the hall and up the stairs to the room. It is closed, and I knock quietly before pushing it open.

Erik is sitting by a large window, sunlight pouring over him and a book in his hands. He looks up when I enter. I see his eyebrow rise, and I swallow nervously.

"Where would you like this?" I ask.

He says nothing for a moment and merely stares at me. I move over to a small table and push aside a few books before hesitantly setting it down.

"What are you doing?" he finally says.

"I – bringing your breakfast," I say. When I glance down once again, my eye catches the books. They are small, and I touch one of them. These books are not those the Oligarchy delivers. The cover is different. A gasp jumps into my throat, and I pick up the red leather book, eagerly opening the pages. I cannot remember how many times I have droned over the toneless, lifeless words of the ten books. New words jump at me. The book smells good.

A slight noise brings me back, and I immediately set the book down, staring at the floor and saying, "I am sorry. It is not my place."

He stands and walks next to me, ignoring the breakfast and picking up the little red book. "Do you enjoy reading?" he asks.

"I did, but after reading and rereading the books by the Oligarchy, I must admit I have lost my fondness for it."

Erik seems to hesitate for a moment before placing the book in my hands. "You may read this, if you would like. It's a book of Shakespearean sonnets. I'm sure you will enjoy them."

When I refuse out of politeness, he takes it back, a note of coolness in his voice. "Very well," he says, setting it down. "I'm sure you must enjoy something else much more."

I stare at the book. My fingers touch its worn cover. I yearn to see what is hidden in its pages.

"Where did you get these?" I ask. "Who wrote them?"

Idly, he picks it back up and flips through the pages, torturing me. "Not all books have been lost. These are the ones we have been able to find and keep. I am sure I do not have to tell you that they are much more interesting than the drivel that families are allowed to keep."

The book he is holding is emblazoned with a small golden square. There are two brown books, each one worn, printed with the words _HOLY BIBLE_. Another one, large and black, is titled _The Chymical Secrets_. Another says _Old English Plays_, with the name Charles Wentworth Dilke beneath it; one is titled _Odyssey_; and a smaller book is called _Paradise Lost_. I want to hug all of these to my breast and never let them be taken away.

"Please," I say breathlessly, uncaring of the fact that I just refused to take them, "may I read one?"

For the first time, the corner of his mouth stretches a bit, as if he is going to smile. "Yes. Perhaps you should start with Shakespeare. He is, after all, the master of language, according to many. And I think you will enjoy him." He places the red book into my hands. I flip it open immediately and skim through the pages. My eyes instantly fall on a stanza.

_Fear no more the frown of the great,  
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:  
Care no more to clothe and eat;  
To thee the reed is as the oak._

"I know this…" I murmur, looking over the rest. "It is a song."

"Yes," he says, now sounding disgusted as he goes back to his own book. "The Oligarchy stole his work and crafted it as their own. As you read, you will find things that you recognize. It is the authors' work; not that of those brainless men."

Clutching the book fervently, I make to leave the room.

"Christine," he calls out, "do not lose that. It is a particular favorite of mine."

----

I am content for days and days. It is hard for me to believe myself that I can sit nearly all day and simply read, but I do, devouring words and phrases and ideas as if I have never been educated before. And, indeed, I haven't.

When I come back, having finished Homer's _Odyssey_, I find Erik looking over papers with two other men. The second is dark-haired and handsome, and the third is Khan. Quietly, I set the book down and pick up the thickest one titled _HOLY BIBLE_. None of the men pay attention to me, and I go back to my room, stretching before settling down to read for the night. It is a most peculiar-looking book, and I open interestedly to the first chapter, entitled Genesis.

_In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. _

Memories stir as I remember that God was mentioned in previous books I read. Now intrigued by the story and character of God, I read on as God creates the plants and the animals.

_And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. So God created man in his __own__ image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth. _

Instantly, I put the book down, feeling anger rush to my head. Even God pushes for the one purpose of my being, the purpose I cannot fulfill. After a quick dinner, I take the book back. As I set it down and pick up _Paradise Lost_, Erik enters and watches me exchange the books.

"Have you finished the Bible already? I didn't know you read that quickly."

I shake my head. "The man's ideas made me upset. I am not interested in reading about his life."

He takes a step forward. "The man? Adam?"

"No. God."

"I – " Erik sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "Sit down," he says. When I do, he looks at me. "Christine, do you know who God is?"

I shake my head. His eyes flash slightly, and he sits down heavily, running his hand over his masked face.

"I'm sorry," I say instantly. "I will read the book if you wish me to."

"No – no," he says quickly, picking up the _HOLY BIBLE _and staring at it for a moment. "Listen to me, Christine. You have – no, I must go further back." He is silent for a few moments, staring at the book. I watch him, almost nervous as he begins to speak. "When the Oligarchy fell into decay, the men realized that if they were to have total control, religion had to be eradicated. Religion is a belief in something, a following of a divine leader. The Oligarchy could not have people turning to God instead of them. And so they took away the Bibles and churches. These past few generations have grown up without hearing of God or His Son."

"Who _is_ God?" I ask, confused.

"God is…well, God. He is the creator of all things, the spiritual leader of all life. He lives in His Heaven and watches us."

This serves to do nothing but confuse me more, and I ask slowly, "And…you believe this…and want others to believe it?"

Now tense and irritated, he stands and begins to pace. "No, Christine, that isn't the point! The problem is that the Oligarchy took away the people's right to believe in a God of all things. They took away a fundamental part of history and culture. It is not their say to tell people in what to believe. If they do not want to believe, it is their decision, not mine! It is not my right to say that you must or must not believe in God!"

"Believe in God?" I press. "I thought he was a fictional character."

"No, Christine. God is a deity, a spiritual being who created us and commands us. That is, if you choose to believe He is."

My head is swimming, and I look blankly at my hands that lie limply on my knees. "How much do I not know?" I ask, more to myself than to him. "How much has been kept from me?"

Erik places the book in my hands. "Do you understand?" he says, his voice quiet. "This is why I am pulling down the hierarchy."

"May I ask you one more question?" I say after another minute of silence. He gives the smallest inclination of his head, so I quickly ask, "How do you know this? Did you grow up outside the Oligarchy's reign? Who taught you all these ideas?" I then realize I have asked three questions instead of one and I blush slightly.

"Surely they taught you to count?" he says, but his voice is not harsh. For the first time in a very long time, a genuine smile comes to my lips – small, but it is real. Erik then sighs. "It is not something to tell." After another moment, he says, "You must go to your room. It's late."

Accepting his dismissal, I clutch the _HOLY BIBLE_ and return. He has not come to my room since the first night. As I lay there, I think and wonder. Is it no longer required or permitted? Does Raoul's life keep him away? Blushing slightly, I cannot help but think that I would not mind so much if he came. Perhaps _he _is the one who finds it boring. But it does not matter right now. He has not come back, and I do not think he ever will.


	12. The Questions

_The Questions_

I do not see Erik for many, many days. In fact, I see no one in the house except the women in black and the occasional man who stops in quickly to see that I am alive and well before leaving. Through my reading, I have many more questions to ask Erik, and I grow frustrated by a lack of answers.

For a few days, I fall ill. Weak and irritable, I remain in bed, refusing everything that is offered, as it makes me nauseous. None will let me venture outside to obtain fresh air. My first attempt ended in me being scolded by one of Erik's men and sent to my room like some petulant child. When I was able to sneak out my second time, a woman spotted me from one of the upstairs windows and hurriedly ushered me back inside. No one will tell me why I am unable to take a walk in the small, ill-kept gardens. My frustration is peaking, and I want to scream and rage, but I simply sit in my room and wear one of my three dresses and stare outside, wishing. And although I cannot see the laborers' village, I daydream sometimes about escaping there to live among the people. I cannot imagine that their lives are worse than my own. Even if they do not have as much food as I, I cannot rid myself of an image of a young girl running through tall grasses, her feet bare and a flower braided into her long, wild hair, free of cares and worry.

_You are being stupid_, a voice whispers. _You are conjuring up romantic images simply to pity yourself_.

After a sigh, I slide under my sheets and, trying to feel content, fall asleep.

----

Once again, I have not been asleep long when I am woken. I sit up, trying to decide what has woken me, when I hear it: the most hauntingly beautiful music is seeping through my door, calling me, and I sit, transfixed, and listen. It is unlike anything I have ever heard. All songs I know are happy or at least melancholy, but this song speaks of grief and despair, and I can feel tears creep into my eyes.

Unaware of my own legs, I stand and drift toward the music, more floating than walking, my eyes and ears fixed on one thing. I do not bother to dress, nor do I pull on a dressing gown. The piano is not far from my room, and I go to it.

Erik sits at the bench, his head bent and his fingers gliding over the keys. It is very dark in the room, save for one candle that sits close by, casting a dramatic and deep shadow on his face. For a very long time, I stand and listen. He knows that I am here, but he does not interrupt himself. There are things I have never felt before coming alive in my chest, and my heart pounds wildly. I do not want the music to end, and I stare as his hands caress more than press the keys of the piano. The instrument has always tantalized me, but I have been too afraid to ask permission to play it, and now I blush with shame to think of the ugly, unremarkable music that I would have played. The music Erik is playing forces me to sit and listen in wonder, and I do for a very long time until the song comes to a soft, slow ending. We sit silently for a minute; I am catching my breath, and Erik is looking at the piano keys, touching them softly.

"Do you enjoy music?" he finally asks, still examining the ivory.

"Yes," I whisper. "I enjoy your music only."

After another moment, he says, "Do you play? I am sure they taught you some form of entertainment."

Slowly, I nod and stand up, transfixed still by the unheard music that is coming from the instrument.

"Do you know any duets? No – do not answer that. I do not wish to play any you know." He leans over and pulls out a few sheets of paper that rest on the armchair. "Here is something I have written. The melody should be easy enough for you."

Once again, I do not walk – I seem to glide over to the piano and take a hesitant seat by him. We have not been this close since…that night, and I remember how _cold _he is. His skin is literally cold. By the light of the candle, I see the music and place my fingers on the keys.

It is a dreamy and slow duet – nothing compared to his first song, but enough to draw me in. All of my worries are washed away with the swirl of the music. Once, our hands brush as I fumble a chord, but his skill quickly covers for my lack, and all my mistakes are covered by his expert hands. But there is nothing to fret over – there is only Erik, and me, and the music, and our triangle brings me more peace than anything else.

All too soon, the peace is over, and we remain on the bench, both staring straight ahead.

"Where have you been?" The question is out before I can stop myself, and I hold my breath. It is not my right to pry. However, he only says, "Away."

"You should go to bed," says Erik softly. "It is late once again."

When I am at the door, I turn quickly, and his eyes meet mine. It is the first time he has looked at me all night.

"I sing," I say breathlessly. "I sing much better than I play."

And I leave, my thoughts drowning as his music follows me to bed and then to sleep.

----

One morning, I wake up and find myself quite ill again. I empty the contents of my stomach and slide to the floor, shaking and pale. I suddenly grow warm as I think of what this could possibly mean – but, no. It is simply a coincidence, a sudden bout of stomach flu that will soon pass. But as the days continue and my sickness with it, I become more and more uncomfortable.

I ask Erik more questions every day. I question him about music theory, Shakespeare, laborers, governments, history, science, mathematics, and he answers all. There is no inquiry he has not been able to answer. However, he is sometimes too busy to speak. I will walk in, a book tentatively clutched in my hand, to find him speaking with someone or pouring over maps and old documents. He will see me and say sharply, "Not now, Christine."

But, later, he is always willing to answer my questions. I will sit on the couch and he will grab a new book or scribble something down for me as he explains. And so, I am not very nervous when I approach him with a new subject.

"What is it today, Christine?" he says as I enter. "The Roman Empire? Disease? Or have you come to pester me about my past?"

Indeed, I have asked him many times about from whence he came and how he obtained all his knowledge, but he is adamant with his silence. After a shy smile, I say,

"No, but I _would_ like to learn about all of those. I have read about _this_ throughout all my books but do not fully understand it."

"Well?" he says, stacking books. "What is it?"

I watch him for a moment, looking at his smooth white mask before saying, "Love."

Whatever he expects, I know that this is not it, for he nearly drops a book and quickly looks at me, his expression shrewd and wary. "Love?"

Nodding, I enter into the room farther and sit. "I am still unclear. Would you explain it?"

Curiously, this is the only time I have ever seen Erik look in the least bit uncomfortable. He grips his book and looks at me, his golden eyes almost lost.

"I am sorry," I say instantly. "Is this something you will not tell me?"

"No – no," he replies quickly. "It is nothing." But it takes him another moment to say anything. "Love is…a feeling, a very powerful, very passionate feeling. There are many different kinds of love: the love one feels for a father or mother, or one's siblings, or one's friends, or the love one feels for a member of the opposite sex."

"How do you know if you are in love with someone?" I ask, and this question makes him look even more uncomfortable. He takes a few steps closer to me.

"It is a hard concept to grasp unless one has experienced it," is his answer. "But it is usually a feeling of complete trust and commitment to another – that one is with a very dear and loyal friend, and that one can be completely serene with them forever. This goes for both platonic and physical love."

I absorb this quietly, thinking of all those I have known. I do not believe I love my father or mother. I know that I love Clara, but I still cannot think of Raoul. Deciding to dwell on that later, I look up at Erik, who is watching me closely.

"Have you ever been in love?" I say.

There is a pressing silence, and I understand that I have asked a very personal and pressing question. My eyes lower to his shoes.

"Me?" he finally says, his voice quiet. "No."

We are spared another moment of silence by someone entering the room. It is a dark-haired, handsome man that I see frequently here but to whom I have never spoken. He spots Erik and addresses him quickly.

"Khan has returned, and he looks very worried. He wishes to see you immediately."

Erik's almost-warm manner disappears instantly. He is once again the Man with Half a Face, and his snappy, brusque manners return.

"Wait here, and I will return with him. You," he says, addressing me, "are dismissed. Return to your room."

The man and I are left alone. He ignores me completely, going over to look out the small window. I walk to the table with the books and rummage through for a moment, stealing glances at the man. His hair is very dark and slightly curled, the same as mine, and his frame is tall and strong. The more I glance at him, the more I cannot help but stare. As I stare at his nose, I touch my own. His eyes have the same shape, and, as I strain my memory, I recognize him. With light footsteps, I walk up to him. He turns to look at me, his brown eyes suspicious.

"Yes?" he says.

Now completely amazed, I reach out to touch his face, too shocked to be aware of what I am doing. Instantly, he jerks away, and a snarl comes to his lips.

"You are to return to your room," he says angrily.

"T – Taurin?" I ask slowly.

There is a small silence. "Yes, that is my name," he says.

"I – you were killed," I whisper. "Your group was ambushed. We were all so sure…and I was devastated because you'd never help me into the trees or throw apples around the kitchens."

His angry expression vanishes instantly, and his eyes are now curious. "Do I know you?"

I place a hand on my chest. "I am Christine. My father, Gustaave – "

" – and my mother, Kiska," he says, his voice echoing with my own.

For a very long moment, we stare at each other. I then throw my arms around him. It takes him a moment before he hugs me back, his hands cautious on my back. His chest is warm and comforting, and I smile into the clean shirt. Years and years have gone by since I heard of Taurin's death, and to have him back brings with it countless emotions – the most prominent being, of course, happiness. But he is so changed! The Taurin I remember was young and carefree, almost reckless, with his brown eyes alight with trickery and delight. But now…he is older, and he is very serious-looking. I step away from him and smile.

"What happened?" I ask, taking his hand. "Where have you been all these years?"

"I – " He falls silent as we hear footsteps out the hall. Quickly, he presses my hands to his lips and says, "We will talk tomorrow after dinner, dear sister. You must return to your room."

I am not at all tired now, but I do as he says and spend the entire night smiling. Taurin is nine years older than I, but he has always been my favorite sibling, ever since I learned what that meant. I remember following him around as he roamed the large house and terrorized the inhabitants with his pranks and wits. He would then lead me, laughing as he ran, outside, where he would hide in a tree while my parents searched for him, calling his name angrily. It was for this reason that he was sent away early to school; he is (or was) hot-blooded and very temperamental, and my mother hoped school would straighten him out. Taurin, however, left school to join the military instead, and, traveling, was supposedly killed. But he is not dead! I wonder if he simply ran away from school, or if he abandoned his military post, or if he was never ambushed at all.

All my questions will be answered tomorrow. I sleep happily knowing that, at last, I have someone in the world. My dreams are light, with brilliant colors and quick-moving. The sun wakes me later, and I ready myself quickly. However, as I am brushing my hair, my stomach lurches, and I, once again, find myself retching. My head swims as I calm myself, and I wash my mouth repeatedly, smothering the thoughts. Perhaps if I simply ignore it, it will go away. I head down to the kitchens and deny breakfast in wake of my queasy stomach before taking the tray up to Erik. I still do not understand why I take it: I have never seen him even _touch _food, much less eat it. But I do, day after day. Sometimes we will speak quietly, sometimes we will not. I do not know if he is aware of Taurin or ever has been, but I am hesitant to speak with him. So I enter quietly and make to leave.

"You now have a family member with you," says Erik. I turn, but his eyes are still fixed on a book.

"Yes," I answer slowly. "Taurin is my third brother and my favorite."

"You will find him much changed," Erik says, carelessly turning a leaf of his book. His words sound oddly ominous, and they echo in my head all day, almost making me dread the conversation after dinner. But I laugh at myself, and my subconscious reassures me,

_He did not seem all that different in those few moments we spoke. Taurin is older and wiser _– _that has changed him. We all change with the years_.

I am sick once again that afternoon, so I do not take dinner and instead spend the few minutes washing my face and hands and trying to restore some color back to my pale cheeks. Finally satisfied, I go to the little study and wait, breathing deeply to keep down the nausea. When Taurin finally enters, I stand, and a true smile comes to my lips. He returns it easily and takes my hands once again. But his smile disappears suddenly.

"You look quite unwell," he says. "Are you sick?"

Quickly, I say that I feel quite well and that I am simply anxious to speak with him. We sit on the couch, and I simply want to look at him. Now that I can study him further, I see more resemblance between us besides the nose and mouth. We have the same skin and cheekbone.

"Now you must tell me what happened to you," I say.

"It is not a particularly exciting story," he says. "You must remember me as being foolish and juvenile and that our parents sent me away to get rid of those undesirable traits. But I had an attraction for the military and quickly joined. It is just like you said, Christine. While traveling, my group _was _ambushed. But we were not killed. We were given the choice to hear the ideas of the "rebels," those who oppose the Oligarchy, and I took that option. It was Erik who converted me, Christine. He is the one who should be in power, and he is the one that I follow. And I have been, ever since that night years ago." We are silent for a moment, each of us looking in the opposite direction. Taurin then touches my shoulder.

"But you will tell me all about you – I have not seen you in over ten years! I know your story, such as Erik told me. But what of the Oligarchy? You were right in the middle."

"Surely you wish to know of your family?" I say. "You have not seen _them _in over ten years, too."

A sudden, unexpectedly hard look comes to his face and eyes. "I do not recognize them as my family. I have none, save you. They cared nothing for me, nor I for them, and I am glad I got out as soon as I could."

His bitterness is surprising, and I do not know how to answer, so I do not. As we continue to speak, his sullenness remains, although he tries to disguise it, and when we part, I feel confused and almost helpless. And Erik is right – unsurprisingly: my brother is much changed.


	13. Changes

_Changes_

I cannot deny it any more. My illness persists, and I miss my cycle. I cry myself to sleep more than one night. And still I tell no one. This causes me more distress than my frustration over my failures, and I am angry with myself to top everything off. More than once I have gone to Erik with the intent of telling him – for it is his, I am sure – but I soon quell and pretend that I simply wished to hear him play.

If there is one thing that calms me, it is Erik's music. He often plays and is always willing to give recitals. Once, he asks if I wish to sing, and I do. When we are finished, I look at him, waiting for his approval. He merely nods his head before taking his music away. Disappointment crushes me, and I turn to go to my room.

"It is beautiful," Erik calls, and I stop. "Your voice. Khan was not wrong."

He says nothing of music for many days, and he disappears for another few. I see Taurin sparingly, but he is apparently very important and is gone away on important business most of the time. However, whenever we speak, he is always kind, and we never mention our family or the Oligarchy, for the subjects make him testy and irritable.

I fall into trouble one warm day. I sit by the window, staring longingly outside. The sun is calling to me, and I have not felt a breeze on my face for many, many weeks. Looking around furtively, I slip away and hurry out the back door, intent on a very quick walk. The wind blows over my arms, ruffling my hair, and I smile.

But I do not walk far. There is a sudden shriek, and someone grabs my shoulder. It is the kind lady. She pulls me back inside, her face stricken with fear and anger.

"How dare you do that, you ungrateful, petulant thing!" she scolds me, heading to my room. "You know very well you are not allowed!" With an angry sigh, she pushes me into the room and locks the door. I am quite tempted to shout at her, but I instead huff and pout by the window, angered mostly by her chidings than I was not outside for long. I am left in my room the rest of the day; I suppose one good thing that comes out of it is the fact that I grow very sick that afternoon and spend most of it in the washroom, trying not to cry as I empty my stomach repeatedly.

For two more days, I see neither Erik nor Taurin, and I am becoming quite aware of the fact that it is now hard for me to fit into my dresses. And so I feel much better at night, when my nightgown flows freely and I can sleep.

One dark night, my sleep is interrupted by a very loud _thump _from downstairs. I sit up quickly in my bed, trying to blink away the confusion. There is another _thump_, followed by raised voices. Now curious, I slide out of the sheets and hurry toward the door. It opens before I can reach it, and Taurin runs in, his face ghostly in the dark. I gasp as I see his lip is cut and dripping blood. But he says nothing and simply grabs my wrist, pulling me out of the room.

"Taurin – stop! What – ?"

"Hush!" he hisses, running quietly down the hall toward the study. I am dragged inside, and he locks the door before pushing a small couch in front of it. Quickly, he shoves all the books off the little table and picks it up.

"Stand back," he commands, and I go to the corner of the room. With a glance at me, he hurls the table through the window, smashing it instantly, and the sound is shattering. I give a shriek and cover my ears. The shouting downstairs has grown louder; it sounds as if they have made their way upstairs. Now looking frantic, Taurin uses his foot to kick away the rest of the glass.

"Come here," he says. I do not dare disobey when his face is set so, and so I hurry over. The door handle rattles as someone tries to enter. There is more shouting, and a loud _thump _as someone throws their weight against the door. Now terrified, I stand by the open window, my brother beside me.

"You must climb into that tree, Christine," he says, pointing to the one that stands outside the window. "It will be exactly like when we were children. I will be right behind you." My gaze drifts to the door. There are loud scratching sounds, more shouting, and more _thumps_.

"Listen to me!" Taurin says, taking my face and turning it toward his own. "You must do this. Climb down the other side of the tree; someone will be waiting for you. Do exactly as I say."

I nod, shaking, and precariously climb into the window ledge. The tree seems so very far away. I whimper slightly. Taurin urges me forward, his voice hurried and strained, and I reach for the limbs, my hands white in the darkness. When I grasp a branch, I feel him pick me up and push me toward the tree, and I am finally in it, clutching the black trunk, terrified and staring at the ground below. Expertly, he climbs on after me, and, as soon as he does, the door is forced open, the couch pushed aside, and men run in. We see them through the open window.

"Christine!" A familiar voice calls my name, and I look into the room. Raoul is at the window, looking at me, and I stare back, disbelieving. A sudden movement from Taurin startles me. He has something in his hand, and it is pointed straight at Raoul's heart. Without knowing for sure what it is, but following what instinct tells me, I shriek and reach around my brother's shoulder, pushing his arm aside.

"Taurin – _no_!" I scream as a loud _crack _fills the air. Instantly, Raoul staggers away, an anguished shout coming from his lips. His white shirt is soon stained with a dark, black-looking liquid, and the men hurry to his side, shouting. Taurin turns and pushes me down the tree, his breathing fast and heavy.

My bare feet touch blessed ground, and I sink to my knees gratefully, shivering, but he pulls me up once more and drags me away from the house. A sudden light fills the night sky, and I turn to see that the house is on fire. There are shouts echoing through the blackness, but we do not stop until we have reached a quiet and covered area. It is then that Taurin turns to me, his face taught with fury.

"_What have you done_?" he hisses. I stare at him, feeling tears finally prick the corner of my eyes, and exhaustion prods me with its cold hand. Before either of us can say anything, a voice materializes from the darkness.

"Give her to me; I will take her to the hiding place and keep her there."

Erik seems to appear from the shadows. His mask shines brilliantly in the orange light. Taurin, his nostrils flared and his eyes cold, steps away from me and says nothing. Erik's long fingers curl around my arm.

"You know what to do?" he asks, and Taurin nods curtly. "Very well. Good luck."

"Come with me, Christine," Erik says, tugging me, and we turn into the black night. Taurin disappears, too, and for a while, all I see is the small, empty streets, and all I feel is Erik's hand and the stone against my feet. He does not slow his pace, and I am soon spent. I lag, feeling wretched and feverish, but Erik merely pulls me harder.

"We must not stop," are his only comforting words. I plod along, a stitch searing my side, my head pounding, and my legs aching. Not five minutes later, I gasp,

"Erik – Erik, I must stop – please."

"No," he says, running even faster. "We cannot."

I push my legs onward, but they will not go, and I fall on the ground, scraping my hands. My stomach reels, and I empty it on the side of the road, tears streaming down my face. Erik, however, seems quite unperturbed, for he quickly picks me up and continues along. I put my arms around his neck and sob, looking for unoffered comfort.

He does not slow his pace – he only seems to quicken it the farther we go. I have my face buried in his hard shoulder, soaking it with tears, and I do not care where we go. But when we arrive there, Erik sets me on my feet and bends down to look into my eyes.

"Christine," he says, his voice unbearably soft. "I know that you are scared and confused, but now is not the time for either of those. For one night, you must be strong. Tonight is not the time for questions or hysterics. Tonight is a time for silent strength. Will you do that for me?" One of his long fingers comes up to wipe away a falling tear, his cold skin soothing against my hot, flushed face.

I finally raise my eyes to meet his golden ones. Swallowing my tears, I nod, and his lips curl into something of a smile. He then takes off his coat and makes to put it over my face.

"I – " I say, pushing the jacket away, but his look is enough to silence me. I allow him to throw the jacket over me, obscuring my vision, and I feel him pick me up once again. It is not long to the destination; the building in which we enter is warm and good-smelling, and that strengthens me. I am set on a couch, and the coat is taken off.

The room is very small, very shabby, but clean. Five men are huddled close together, murmuring and looking at me. All have visible scratches and bruises. One is nursing his arm, which bleeds profusely. Amongst these men is Khan, who steps over to whisper with Erik. I shiver on the couch, and Erik carelessly drapes his coat over my lap. Gratefully, I wrap it around my shoulders for cover and warmth.

Not long after, Erik leaves. But I want him to stay. I want him to sit beside me and whisper something to make me feel better. I want him to play music for me. But Nadir Khan sits beside me and says,

"Are you hurt?"

I shake my head, staring at the opposite wall, my mind and body exhausted. Curling up in Erik's vast coat, I place my head on the armrest and am able to fall asleep.

When I am wakened, everyone is still there, still speaking quietly, and still bleeding. There are movements outside the door, and the men part to allow two more men to enter. The two – one of which is Erik – are carrying something between them, and I shift in my seat in order to look. It is Taurin, his eyes closed and his white face glazed with sweat. The cut lip has clotted, and the blood now looks black. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, and, horrified, I watch as Erik gently removes Taurin's dark coat. Beneath it is a white shirt stained blood-red. Unable to help myself, I cry out and kneel by Taurin's side, placing a shaking hand on his hot cheek. He moans slightly and turns his head toward me. I look up at Erik, whose face is as unemotional as his mask.

"Is he going to die?"

There is a heavy pause, the silence broken only by Taurin's labored, uneven breathing.

"I don't know," Erik says.

My very blood chills, and I stare at my brother's handsome face. If he is taken from me – on top of everything that has happened – I know that I will be lost. And so I will make sure that he keeps breathing; I will watch him every minute of the day to see that his chest continues to rise and fall.

There is a hand on my shoulder. I know by the long, white fingers that it is Erik's.

"Come, Christine," he says quietly. "Khan will take you to a room. This is not a sight for you."

I say nothing and do not move but continue to stare at Taurin. Erik's grip tightens, and he pulls me slightly, repeating, "Come, Christine." I push his hand away, and I try to remain silent. I try to keep everything boiling inside, all my fears and anger.

But when I feel Erik pull me up, I instantly begin to writhe, shrieking hysterically as he literally drags me from the room. His arms are wrapped securely around me, but I make every effort to escape and return to Taurin's side. All of my frustration is coming out, and Erik takes it soundlessly. He takes us to another room, this one a bedroom, and stands in front of the door. I try to push past him, but he is immovable.

"I asked you," he says quietly, "for silent courage tonight, Christine. You have not followed my request."

Completely losing my senses, I pick up a candlestick and throw it at him. "You did not ask me for silent courage!" I scream. "You asked me to disappear – to stay out of the way! 'Oh yes, just be silent, Christine, and sit here while you watch your brother die! Ask us nothing, Christine, because you would not understand!' And you! You speak of a better life for all of us, but you do not know anything, and you will never know, because you are a man who hides behind a mask and cares for no one but himself! How dare you pretend to care for the people when you have never loved anyone, never cared about someone so deeply that – "

I go too far, for he moves suddenly, and I stumble into the wall as his flashing eyes bear down upon me.

"If we are to point fingers, Christine, I can play that game, too. But that's all you do, isn't it – play games and whine about yourself. You snivel and cower behind others and simply expect to be taken care of. Your constant moaning on your sorry behalf has given me more than enough headaches! There are people who have nothing and are stronger than you! Have you ever considered, Christine, that your life is not at all the tragedy you make it out to be? That it is a life that many would kill to live?"

His words sting – because they are true. To cover my tears, I rush at him and do something I have never done: I bring my hand up and attempt to slap him. But he does not allow that; he catches my wrist easily, and I, exhausted, lean into him, sniffling and feeling thick tears slide ceaselessly down my face. It is so unfair that he is right when _I _need to be. My stomach gives an unpleasant lurch, and I grimace, feeling the soft material of his shirt rub against my cheek.

I will tell him. It is one more burden to add, but, with time, I hope he can shoulder it. Swallowing harshly, I look up at him, opening my mouth to speak, but I fall silent. He is looking down at me with a most peculiar expression. I cannot read it. His golden eyes, I notice, have traveled down and are staring my lips. There is a tense silence.

"Are you going to kiss me?" I whisper, part of me hoping he will. He blinks once, and a slightly angry snarl comes to his lips.

"You need to sleep," he says, his voice curt. Suddenly, I am swept up, and he takes me to the bed before dropping me rather unceremoniously. My eyes ache with tiredness, but I continue to watch him. A thrill of terror runs through me as I call out,

"Erik, I must tell you something."

His sigh echoes around the tiny room. "What?"

Mouth dry, palms sweating, stomach flipping, I say, "I am expecting a baby."

He does not look at me and says evenly, "Very well." And then he leaves the room. Strangely enough, I do not cry myself to sleep.


	14. The Rescues

_The Rescues_

_Erik_

My head is throbbing.

I walk out of the room quickly, telling myself to continue to breathe, continue to think, continue to exist. I feel a need to do something reckless. Her accusations and revelation make my heart quicken. When I shut the door, there is silence on both sides. _They will claim it and there will be no hope, and all that exists_…

No. I do not think about that right now. My mind forces itself to the present instead of the future. I walk to the other small bedroom. The men are there, and I motion for Khan to approach, not allowing myself to look at the bed – not yet. Khan stops near me, and I say,

"How is he doing?"

Khan does not answer, so I push past him and finally let my eyes focus on the bed. Taurin's once-white shirt has been removed, and his skin is glazed with sweat. The crude bandages have been soaked through. His breathing is fast, irregular, and I watch as his eyes move behind the lids, frantic and painful. When I place a hand on his forehead, I instantly draw back. The skin is burning.

"We have no way to access medicine tonight," says one of the men – Aidan. "But I am afraid he will die unless we do."

I look at Aidan shrewdly, yet I accept what he says. My mind reeling with ideas, I walk back to Khan.

"I am going out," I say, not bothering to keep my voice low. Everyone in the room has his eyes upon me.

"It's suicide," Khan replies, his voice a bit angry. "The entire town is being scoured by hundreds of men, and they are all looking for _you_."

"I won't be gone long," I say, ignoring him completely and picking up a dark jacket that rests on a rickety old table. "Khan." Here, I pause slightly, and then I do lower my voice considerably. "It is crucial that Christine is watched every moment. Will you do that? She cannot be out of sight."

He looks slightly confused but nods at my request and leaves the room to go to hers. I do not know if she is asleep or still awake, but I cannot wonder. My mind must be focused. The night is black – dark beyond belief. As an extra precaution, I slip off my mask so it will not reflect light. The cool wind brushes over my bare face. It feels good.

Without waiting any more, I begin to creep along the streets, making toward the center of the city. If I am lucky, Aidan's house will have been searched and left alone…if I am lucky. And that rarely happens. However, Taurin is dying, and so I go. Many times I am forced to cram myself in corners and crevices to disappear from the groups of men running about. There are never more than six of them in a group. Their shouts echo around the streets. And my head _hurts_.

As I am hiding, I have a chance to look inside a window that is pouring light onto the streets. There is a small family inside, all sitting in front of a fire. The mother is reading, the father dozing, and the two boys are teasing the little girl. The girl is crying. She continues to cry the whole time I am standing there. The parents do nothing. I frown and continue toward the house on the corner of the street. The windows are dark and it is silent, which means that they haven't yet identified Aidan. It will not take long, so I quicken my pace. It takes a minute to scale the fence and pick the lock, but eventually I am able to let myself into the quiet, dark hall.

I have been in his house only once or twice, but I know the room in which he keeps his medicines. Creeping upstairs, I keep my breathing soft and regular. There is no such thing as too much caution. Upstairs, through the hall, and into the room on the left-hand side. The room is dark, too, undisturbed, and I walk over to the little wooden cupboard. A sigh of relief escapes me as I see that the little bottles have not been disturbed. Through a minute of searching, I find a little bag and return to the cabinet. I pick up the needed bottles and medical instruments, but, after a moment's hesitation, I take the rest of the lot. The medicine chinks together softly; I cannot hurry for fear of breaking any of them, and so, I find my way outside once again.

The wind has picked up. Leaves and dirt swirl against my boots and thunder rumbles in the sky. It does not take long for the rain to fall. As I hurry back through the streets, it pelts my skin and clothing. Before long, I am completely soaked, as is the satchel I am carrying. The rain is good, however. It muffles my steps and makes visibility even less. The light in the little family's house has gone out. Men running about are less and less.

Finally, I reach the house and open the door, allowing myself to relax just slightly. Not that I am surprised I was not stopped; if twenty years of practicing stealth hasn't paid off by now, I doubt it ever will. I drip all over the carpets as I hurry to the small bedroom. The men tense and then relax visibly as I enter. Some sigh and others sit down. Aidan takes the bag from me and eyes everything I took with an appreciative eye. Quickly, he begins to delegate jobs for everyone – new bandages, warm water, and clean sheets. I take a moment to sit beside the bed, watching Taurin's still-sweaty face.

"How did this happen?" I ask suddenly, my mood growing darker with anger. Aidan pauses in his work and looks at me. The two men who are left also glance at me.

"As I understand it," says Aidan, "Taurin was pulling Mason out of the building, away from the fire, and was then shot."

"I know _that_," I snap, more than a bit irritated. "How did they find us? We cover our tracks so carefully. We plan ahead so things like this do not happen!"

There is silence in the room, and one of the men speaks up, his voice very quiet. "As I understand, your… wife…was seen in the gardens."

The silence thickens, and my anger peaks. Without another word, I stand up, knocking the chair over, and leave the room, unaware of my feet walking below me. She _knew _she was not allowed outside for _precisely this reason_. And yet she still went out, an ignorant and stupid child, and now her brother is dying as a price for her pettiness. I do not care that she is sleeping, that she is exhausted – I storm into the room, intent upon screaming myself hoarse and reducing her to a pathetic bundle of apologies. But I stop, however, when my eyes focus on the room.

Christine is not asleep – she is not even in bed. She is curled up on the floor, her head on Khan's lap, sobbing. A bowl is next to them. Khan looks at me from his position on the floor, and his eyebrows raise in a _This is your fault_ way. I sigh and walk over to the two of them. Khan gently lifts Christine from his lap and looks pointedly at me. Grudgingly, I take a pillow from the bed and hand it to him. He puts it under her head and we speak quietly.

"She has been quite ill," he says, and the way his eyes look at me make me think he suspects the truth behind her sickness, but I say nothing. "For whatever reason you came here, leave it for another day. She is tired, sick, and very confused." He holds up his hands when I open my mouth "I know you aren't particularly fond of advice, Erik, but listen to me just this once. I was once married."

We stand silently for a minute, listening to her quiet cries, and I say as softly as possible, "Go to Aidan and get something for her. I suppose I should watch her for the rest of the night."

He nods and leaves, and I am left alone with her. Hesitantly, I kneel next to her shivering form. It is as if I am not next to the same person who asked me of science and love. I have never seen her so ragged and forlorn-looking. Her hair is frizzy and unkempt, and her nightgown is limp, shabby, and clings to her feebly. The face that looks up at me is not hers. It is pale, haggard, and tear-streaked – completely different from the youthful, fresh, and vibrant one that smiled at me. It is hard to think that so much depends upon this strange, sad girl. She slowly rests her head against my chest and brings her arms around me. Within a few minutes, she has situated herself in my lap. Deciding it to be a lost cause if I try to push her away, I instead allow her to sit and hiccough on my lap. My legs are aching, and the damp fabric isn't helping. Gathering her up, I stand, intent on sitting in a chair. But there are none. I am forced to be content with the small, creaky bed. After we have situated ourselves – with Christine still curled up in my lap – Khan enters, holding a small bottle. His eyebrows raise in surprise as he takes in our position, and I narrow my eyes at him, daring him to say anything. He does nothing but give me the medicine.

"Khan," I say, "she will need a glass of water."

He leaves again, and I shift slightly so I am able to look down into her face.

"You need to drink this," I say quietly. "It will make you feel better."

She takes the bottle in shaking fingers after I have opened it for her, but she does not drink it.

"Erik," she says, her voice weak.

"Do not speak. You need to drink it."

"No," is her feeble response. "No, Erik – I think – I think I'm going to be sick."

Instantly, I take the little vial and carry her to the bowl. She retches horribly, her entire frame shaking. Just in time, Khan reenters with the water, and Christine takes it from him and drinks, slopping it down her chin and neck as a result of her unsteady hands. She gasps in air and hands the empty glass back, returning to my lap and sighing. Perhaps I should be disgusted – but I am not.

I nod at Khan, and he leaves quietly. Christine finally drinks the medicine when she is back on the bed. It does not take her long to fall asleep, though this time she is spread out on my chest. We have not been this close physically since our first night. So many things are now different, and nothing is as I planned.

For the first time in a very long, long time, I feel myself relax fully. There is something oddly comforting about her presence and weight. I allow myself to think of the child she will bear, and I wonder about many things…and my imagination catches me, and I am caught up in a daydream that turns into a dream as I fall asleep.


	15. Importance

_Importance_

_Children run through a quaint village. Parents laugh and scold at the same time, and the children shriek with laughter and continue to scamper around the little field. A party is clearly happening. All faces have smiles, and all faces are healthy. A soft breeze blows from a clear blue sky. But as the children reach the end of the village, they turn and run back, screaming. The sky darkens instantly, and people are shrieking, houses are burning, and the smell of death overpowers the – _

I wake instantly, my eyes snapping open to stare at the ugly ceiling. Quickly, I take in my surroundings. Christine is still nestled on my chest. I have managed to lie down completely on the bed, and my arms have wrapped themselves around her. Pale sunlight is peeking through the small window, fresh and new from the rain last night. Khan was the one who woke me. He stands by the door, something like a smirk on his face, and I scowl. Slowly, gently, hesitantly, I slide out from under Christine and pull the sheets up over her before going to Khan.

"What?" I say irritably.

"I just thought you should know," he says, "that Taurin has woken up."

Immediately, I leave the room for the other one, saying, "Stay here," and I am grateful that the other room is almost empty, save Aidan. He is laying out a clean white cloth on a table and merely nods to me before returning to work. Taurin is watching him before he turns to look at me. He looks very much the same – the only difference is that his eyes are open. His half-smile is something more like a painful grimace, and I approach, taking a seat on the chair next to the bed.

"Do you feel as bad as you look?"

His smile turns into a facetious one. "You should not be the one speaking about looks, Erik."

It is my turn to allow my lips to stretch into a small grin. Taurin saw my face a little over a year ago during a night we were attacked by the men from the Oligarchy. My mask was knocked off, and I had no way to cover it before he could see. The only thing he did was grimace, step back a bit, and say, "Good gracious, you're ugly." And we have never spoken of it again.

There is a gentle clink of metals, and I look to see Aidan lining up cruel-looking medical tools. Taurin sees them, too, and says gruffly, "I think I shall leave the bullet in, thank you."

"Don't be ridiculous," says Aidan lightly, setting the last tool down and turning. "An infection will lead to your death. Now – there is no time to be lost. Are you ready?"

I look down to see Taurin nodding, his pale face set, and Aidan removes the thick bandages to reveal a gaping red hole located just below the right ribcage. Aidan picks up a silver, long-handled tool and calmly proceeds to insert it into the bullet hole. Although his face is set, Taurin lets out a muffled shout of pain and immediately twists away from Aidan.

"You can't move!" says Aidan, his voice angry. "I cannot afford to cause further internal damage. Hold still."

Taurin twists his left hand into the sheets and clenches his teeth, closing his eyes. I do not watch as Aidan picks up new tools; I keep my eyes down toward Taurin, who is breathing heavily through the pain. In an undoubtedly unbearable moment, he grabs my hand and presses hard, fighting man's natural instinct to flee from pain. I glance up at Aidan, who is concentrated in his work. There are a few more minutes of white-palm agony, and suddenly Aidan steps back, a tool in his hand and a relieved look on his face. Taurin moans and then sighs, letting his hand slide onto the bed. Onto the white cloth, Aidan drops a blood-coated bullet, small and ugly, and he immediately begins to clean up, washing away the blood and bandaging the wound. The hard pressure in my chest begins to loosen, and I close my eyes briefly before standing and leaving the room. I walk through the small, ugly house. There is no privacy here. The men are sleeping on the couches and floors, exhausted from the events, and I pick my way to the small kitchen, slouching onto a hard chair.

Although I want to rest, my mind will not allow me to, and it speeds up with the problems that face us. The most prominent – the Oligarchy knows that we are hiding in the city, under their very noses. It will not take long for them to scour every house and hovel until they find us. Khan is lost; the inside information is lost until someone rises, but the chances are unlikely. It will be nearly impossible to discover the new members of the Oligarchy, much less find and eliminate the leader – Raoul. And the child that Christine carries will be claimed his if she should ever be taken back. Time and place does not matter. The Oligarchy controls both, and it will use its insatiable power for its own benefit. There will be stronger defenses built – more spies and more whispers. Punishment will be swift, unjust, and brutal. They will not take chances. There will be no mercy now.

I take off my mask for a few brief moments to rub the skin, aggravated, before slipping it back on and leaving the kitchen, my head still aching and exhausted. The afternoon sun is blocked by heavy curtains; the air is musty and hot. Every part of me is commanding me to take the men and solve the problems this very instant – yet I know that the smallest problems must be taken care of before they turn into big ones, and so I head to the small bedroom, opening the door quietly. My stomach plummets when I see the empty bed. Khan is sleeping in the chair, and I wake him quickly with a sharp blow to the head. He wakes with a shout and rubs his head, looking up to glare at me. I point to the empty bed, and his mouth opens slightly.

"What – ?"

"I don't want to listen," I interrupt coldly. "Your only job was to watch her. Now we must go find her."

Khan stands up as I leave the room. My heart is pounding, and I try to calm myself. _She was not taken. They could not have gotten in without someone noticing. _

As I search the few rooms with little success, my anger mounts, and I smash my fist into the wall and then instantly step away, as Taurin is on the other side, and he is probably still sleeping. But then my mind clears, and I quickly go to his room to find what I knew was there all along.

She has pulled up the chair next to his side, and his hand is being held in hers. Her other hand smoothes his hair and then comes to her own face. I hear her quiet sniffles and know that she is crying. Softly, she brings her brother's hand up and presses it to her lips. He doesn't moves during this, looking pale and weak on the sheets.

I enter the room farther, and she turns quickly, hearing my footsteps. Immediately, she brushes away the tears and stands.

"I know I'm not allowed to be here," she says, her voice surprisingly strong, "but I had to see him."

I frown slightly. "You are allowed here. We simply cannot afford to have you out of sight. Do you realize this, Christine? Do you understand how important you have become?"

A strange look crosses her face, but she nods before clutching the skirt of her nightgown and then letting it fall in a helpless manner.

"I would very much appreciate a bath and change of clothing," she says, "and something to eat, perhaps. If it's not too much trouble," she added hastily.

"Come with me," I say. I take her back to Khan, instruct her to remain there, and I go to the small, dingy washroom to draw a lukewarm bath. It is the only thing she can have. While the tub fills, I attempt to straighten the room a bit. She is, after all, living in a house full of men. The evening sun drifts in through a small window. The issue of clothing drifts into my mind. We have no dresses here, no nightgowns or anything to suit her, and there isn't a way to obtain any at the moment. She will not wish to remain in her current dress, however, so I find something – not what she will want, but it is suitable for the present.

She follows me to the room, quiet and thoughtful. As she sticks a finger into the tub, she draws it back quickly, looking at me questioningly.

"This is what you must have," I say, raising an eyebrow. "It is the best we can offer at the moment."

"Very well," she says. Then she looks at the tub and me. "Will you leave now?"

I shake my head and point to the window. "I have told you that we cannot take chances, even the smallest ones."

Her mouth sets and her brow furrows. "I will not bathe with you in the room," she snaps.

"It is no concern of mine," I reply easily, going to the door. "Come with me, and I will return you to Khan. Heaven knows that _I _need to bathe. If you will not use the water, I will."

She is still angry, but she does not move, and her eyes drift back to the tub.

"Come along," I say again, placing my fingers on the door handle. There is a moment of silence.

"Oh, very well," she says angrily. "It isn't as if I haven't completely lost all my dignity and privacy before." I turn around, but she instantly says, "Turn back around – you can't look at me."

I do as she commands, a half-smile coming to my lips. After another moment, she asks hesitantly, "Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes," I lie, half-amused, half-exasperated.

"Well – don't turn around," she says. There is the sound of water lapping gently against the sides, and she gasps loudly. "It's cold," is her comment.

"Then be quick."

She does not say anything for a while, and I look at the ugly wall. For a bizarre, unknown reason, I feel quite calm. The problems that gaped at me just an hour ago suddenly seem less threatening and more solvable. Nothing has changed, nothing has been done, yet to be here, sitting in this filthy little washroom, seems to be the only thing I want to do.

"Erik," Christine says, "when you asked me earlier if I realized how important I was, I lied to you. I do not understand why I must be watched and kept inside every minute."

I do not answer her for a while, thinking over how best to explain this. "Have you ever stopped to wonder, Christine, about the contradictions of the Oligarchy? They put so little faith into women, so little trust, yet so much depends upon them. I married you, and now, by law, I have your previous husband's position because you had no sons. It is the same with all marriages. But now that you are carrying a child, it will be claimed as your previous husband's child. I will no longer hold any marital right to you if you are to have his children."

"But…" Her voice is very quiet. "It is not his."

"That does not matter," I say. "He will claim it as his own if you somehow fall back into their hands, and the Oligarchy will continue to raise brainwashed, idiotic children who follow the traditions of their fathers and cannot see the suffering in front of them. This situation is so pivotal, so fragile, that to take even the smallest chance would be completely asinine. What we must do right now is keep you safe and continue to look for the hiding places of the new Oligarchy."

"Must you kill Raoul?" There is a pleading tone to her voice. "He was very kind to me."

I nearly turn around but remember myself and continue to stare at the wall. "Yes," I say. There is another bout of silence, and there is the quiet sound of splashes in the tub. I allow my mind to wander freely for a time, but it wanders back to her. I sit in content quietness until she says something.

I blink into consciousness. "What?"

"Your plan. Do you think it will work?"

This time, I do not lie when I say, "Yes."

"Why? It hasn't thus far." Her tone is not accusing or angry, merely curious.

"I have faith," I say.

"In what?"

"In my men. In our cause. In you."

The last slipped out without planning, and I do not add, nor does she respond. She merely says, "I'm getting out. Don't turn around."

"Your clothes are right next to you," I say. "We will get you something to eat when you are finished."

I hear her wet feet step onto the wooden floor. A few moments later, there is a cry of outrage, and she says, "Do you think you're funny?"

I cannot help but smile just a bit as I turn around, and she does not stop me, for she is wrapped up in a towel. Her hand is holding a pair of trousers and her face is suggesting the most incredible insult.

"It is the only thing available right now," I say lightly. "We certainly didn't plan on accommodating ladies here. You must wait a few more days for suitable clothing."

She continues to glare at me, her dark hair dripping and her small, red mouth somewhat puckered. I look back steadily.

"All right!" She is angry at herself for giving in so many times, and she grumbles as she pulls on the men's clothing. "How do you put this on? This is ridiculous. How can you wear this? I shall never be able to look at myself without disgust."

There is a moment of silence. "These are too big." I turn around and nearly laugh out loud. The sleeves hang off her hands, and the hem of the pants have pooled around her feet. She hasn't buttoned the top of her shirt correctly, and she is holding the trousers at the waist to keep them from falling. The first word that comes to my mind is _adorable_, but I blink and shake the thought out of my head. She accepts my help, and I spend a few minutes rolling up the sleeves and pants. When I reach for the buttons on her shirt, however, she jerks back, looking at me.

"I'm simply redoing some buttons," I say, an unexplainable surge of annoyance sweeping through me. She then stills, but I know that her eyes are on me as I fix the shirt. Finally, when the last button is fixed, I meet her eyes. There is a strange stillness that settles over the room. It is as if my very heart is still. Her blue eyes are the only thing to see in t he whole world. And then – I'm not sure how it happens – she kisses me softly. When she pulls away, her eyes are on the floor, and I can see her flushed cheeks and neck.

"You need a belt," I say stupidly. My mind is strangely foggy. She nods at the ground. "Come with me," I say. "I'll find you a belt and some shoes." In a strange daze, I walk out of the room, followed by Christine. My head clears when I see that most of the men have woken. They look at Christine with incredulous expressions, and I can practically feel her shrink with embarrassment behind me. They are also looking at me, questions in their eyes, and I know that it will be a very long night. Khan follows me into the bedroom, and I pull out a belt from a pile of clothes. It is also too big, so I cut an extra hole, and Christine wraps it around her waist. She looks, understandably, strange, but in an endearing and childish sort of way.

"We all must speak," Khan says quietly to me. I nod. "Everyone must listen – there is no one to watch her."

I look at Christine, who is pulling on the smallest pair of boots I could find. "She will have to sit in the room with us," I finally say. "She is too valuable to be left alone for even a moment."

Khan replies quietly, "Too valuable for us, or too valuable for _you_?"


	16. A Moment

_A Moment_

In the end, it is not such a huge compromise. We gather in the sitting room. Christine has been given something to eat, and she sits quietly in the corner, apparently too interested in her dinner to be interested in the proceedings. All that I know, I quickly tell to the men so all have the same information. Their faces display utter seriousness, and I cannot help but feel myself slipping back into a cold general. It feels different when I am around Christine. She strips away the harsh commander. Her innocence demands it. I am the only one to speak for a very long time.

"Now, as Khan was spotted during the raid, his conveniently-placed house is no longer ours. The only good thing about this is the fact that there are less spies lurking around the houses out here, which was why we were discovered in the first place. Khan cannot leave the house right now, nor can many of you, which puts us at a most serious disadvantage. We cannot guarantee that you will not be recognized and followed. However, there are too many of us here. If there is another raid, it just might break our cause. Radley and Thane, you two must go live with Baden. He was not there, and so his position is still covert. If he reports anything important, I wish to know it immediately. He is not as high up as Khan was, but he will still know useful things. Davin, move to Kennan's place. And Kynan, you are to live with Carrick.

Now, as it is close to nightfall, you will all move tonight. The first two, leave in one hour. Davin, leave at eleven, and Kynan, you are to leave at three. Someone will contact you with necessary information. The new Oligarchy will not have moved from the Capitol; their arrogance is deep, and they believe nothing can touch them there. But we cannot get inside to see the new faces. That is the goal for now. I wish for everyone to think of a way inside, and I will be doing the same." There is silence, and they look at one another. "Radley, Thane, I suggest you prepare for your move," I say as dismissal, and the men all stand in unison and troop out of the room. Khan hesitates by the door, but then he, too, leaves. With a sigh, I turn and look to Christine. She is staring out of the little dark window, her knees drawn up and her arms around her legs. After a minute of silence, she turns to look at me.

"Are you frustrated?" she asks softly.

"Yes," I say. "Are you tired?"

"No. Is there anything I can do?"

I smile humorlessly, and we begin to exit the room. "Do you happen to know a way into the Capitol without risking lives?"

She suddenly stops. "Erik," she says slowly, and I turn to see that her face is scrunched up with thought. "Erik, _I_…I can get into the Capitol."

I know what she is thinking, and I frown deeply. "No," I say, turning back to the door.

"No – wait, listen!" She grabs the sleeve of my shirt. "It would be easy for me to go back and get the information you need. It would not risk any lives."

"And you would like to assist in the killing of your beloved Raoul?" Her face whitens, and the eager expression disappears. "How would you get this information back to us?"

She is silent, and then her face turns from white to red. Her blue eyes drop to the floor. I sigh; it was not my intent to embarrass her. Without thinking, I reach up and run a finger down her soft, dark curls. Slowly, her eyes come back to mine, and I take my hand back.

"Forgive me, my dear," I say quietly, though I am not apologizing for my hand. With the smallest, sweetest smile I have ever seen, she says,

"Erik, may I ask you something?" When I nod, she asks, "Will you sing for me?"

I am silent, and she quickly says, "Oh – I'm sorry! Do you not sing? You simply have a beautiful voice, and so I assumed – but it was wrong of me, I'm sorry."

"It was not 'wrong of you,'" I say, frowning slightly. "You must stop punishing yourself continually. And…yes," I finally agree. "I will sing for you."

It takes not quite two songs to put her to sleep. She had staggered back to the couch and fallen, staring at me. She then lay down, and it was not long after that. Perhaps I shouldn't boast – but my voice _is _something God gave to me, and I know how to use it quite well. Christine will now sleep for a very long time. Quietly, I go and pick her up. The couch is small and cramped, and she does have the privilege of using one of the two beds. It is strange to carry her in something other than a gown. The fabric of the trousers is thin, as is the material of the shirt. It is no wonder she is uncomfortable. Her gowns have countless layers that hide much, and she is not accustomed to wearing such little clothing.

When I place her on the bed, I can see a slight protrusion of her stomach. This jars me, and I stand completely still for a very long time. It is almost as if…if I had not seen it, I should not have believed she is carrying a child. The forced ignorance of her condition gave me a soft layer of feeble comfort, but now I can see, and I will be forced to make _more _plans to accommodate for this. I can feel my head begin to pound, and my stomach complains of hunger. I blink, surprised at the noise. When I try to think of the last time I have eaten, I cannot. And so the two things I want are to rid myself of this headache, which can be accomplished with sleep, and stop my stomach. The house is silent. I relax in a chair that rests close to the bed and watch as she sleeps. When someone else is up to watch her, I will take care of other needs. But, for now, she must be kept in sight.

I look at her absent-mindedly, watching her breathe softly. She looks very peaceful, not at all anxious or worried, the expressions that have often troubled her small, pretty face. Her dark, thick lashes rest on her cheeks, and I think for a moment about her blue eyes. They are very thoughtful and manage to show her feelings quite well. She sighs softly and shifts, turning as if to look at me. Her soft breaths are oddly soothing, and I feel myself relax even more. The night is pressing in, comforting my tired eyes, and the chair is welcoming. For a brief moment, I close my eyes. The brief moment, however, turns into very long minutes, and I find myself thinking ridiculous fantasies that turn into dreams as I fall asleep.

_A boy and girl run through the woods, gasping for breath as they climb over fallen trees and rocks. The girl is fair, and her long, dark hair streams out behind her as she runs. She is close to womanhood, older than the boy, whose spindly limbs and wiry frame climb nimbly over the obstacles. _

"_Stop – stop," she pants, leaning on a large tree as she gulps for breath. "I must rest for a moment." _

_The boy says nothing and turns around to the direction from which they came. A trail of smoke rises above the tall trees, but all is silent now. The girl follows his gaze, her dark eyes widening._

"_Do you…think anyone is still alive?" she says, her voice much more a whisper than anything. _

My eyes snap open instantly, and I sit upright. I had rested my upper torso on the bed, much too near Christine. She is looking at me, her expression quite blank.

"I apologize," I say, running a hand through my hair. "I didn't mean to doze."

"Is it possible to go to the washroom?" she asks. "I feel quite ill."

She does become sick when we enter the room, though it does not seem as bad as before. She shudders and gasps for air before washing her mouth with cool water. Unsure of what she wishes me to do, I simply stand near her and allow her to do whatever she pleases. She sits on the floor with a heavy sigh, closing her eyes.

"Do you still feel unwell?" I say, looking at her. She looks up and smiles very softly.

"Not as badly as I felt before. Do you know how long it is expected to last?"

I know precious little about pregnancies, and so I say slowly, "I have heard most stop during the third or fourth month. Do you know how far along you are?"

She places a hand on her stomach. "I…I'm not sure. I know it has been a few months, but I cannot give an exact number." There is a minute of silence, and she begins, "Erik, do you fully realize that you – "

Her sentence is interrupted with the door opening. Khan sticks his head inside and says quickly, "He is awake, if you would like to speak with him."

I quickly help Christine to her feet and say, "Please watch Christine for a few moments while I speak with him." I look at Christine's disappointed face and attempt to reconcile her by saying, "You may see him soon, darling. Just allow me two minutes."

Taurin looks considerably better, though still pale. I take a seat next to him.

"What has happened while I was out?" he asks instantly, trying and failing to sit up.

"Nothing dramatic," I say, shrugging slightly. "I sent some of the men to live with others. There isn't room in this house for thirteen people, and Christine is in the smaller bedroom, so space is still limited." I muse for a moment before continuing. "She is very unhappy with me. For now, she is wearing men's clothing, and she is positively ashamed of herself. I must get something here for her soon."

He doesn't appear to be listening; his brow is knitted, and his eyes are focused on a spot over my shoulder. He frowns. "There is something I must tell you," he says, a slight hesitation in his voice. "I have been meaning to for a very long time. Perhaps it won't matter to you, but perhaps it will." I motion for him to continue, and he sighs. "The night of the raid, I saw Raoul, and I was able to get a very good shot pointed, but…Christine pushed my arm aside. I only managed to hit his shoulder. I am sure he is quite well by now."

There is a tense minute of silence, and I say slowly, with forced calm, "You had a clear shot…but Christine ruined it?"

He nods. I sigh loudly and put my hands up to my face, feeling the white mask rub against the skin of my palm. Surprisingly, it isn't anger toward Christine that clouds my mind. It is frustration and…almost a sense of _pity_. She is still deluded into thinking that Raoul should live through this, yet exterminating him is one of our main purposes.

Finally, I look at him and say, "There will be another chance. Our only option right now is to let the dust settle, and then we will be able to see." I almost do not say this, but her wide blue eyes tell me I must. "Christine is very anxious to see you. She nearly cried when I told her that I was going to speak with you first. She cares very much about you. Do not accuse or patronize her just now. It is not the time."

Taurin is quiet for a moment, and then he nods. I go to the door and open it quietly, but I am knocked aside as Christine rushes in. She sits in the chair and instantly breathes,

"Are you feeling well?"

I take a seat in the corner, trying not to interfere with their time together. Leaving Christine with an invalid is not something I will do, so I simply wait in the corner and try to occupy myself with something else. Taurin says that yes, he does feel quite well.

"Have you eaten anything?" Christine asks, and I can imagine her taking his hand and pressing it. "You look so pale. Are you warm enough?"

"Yes," he says gruffly, sounding pleasantly irritated. I wonder briefly what it would feel like to have someone concerned over my behalf.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she presses.

"_No_, Christine, I am quite well, thank you." There is a moment of silence. "You look wonderful." His voice has a gentle, teasing way to it, and I can almost feel the embarrassment coming off of Christine, who replies defensively,

"Well, it isn't for long, and I can tell you that I am not at all comfortable in this…outfit. How you wear this, I will never know."

Taurin laughs shortly and says, "Of course, sister. I am sorry for embarrassing you."

They speak quietly about other things for a few minutes longer. I give them adequate time to speak about all they wish, and, when a comfortable silence is present, I stand and go to the door. Christine nods before turning back to her brother.

"I will come see you again, if you wish," she says.

Taurin says sharply, "I am not dying. You may see me as often as you would like to. Do not treat me like a deathbed patient."

Christine smiles ever-so-slightly and stands. "I will come back soon," she promises, and she leaves. Khan escorts her to the bedroom, and I return to speak quickly with Taurin. He is looking at the door, his eyes bright and his eyebrows raised.

"She does look strange," he says, his lips curling up slightly, "though not in an unpleasant way. I suppose we shall just have to become used to it."

I say, "Yes, I suppose that she will also have to – "

"Erik!" he interrupts loudly. I look to see a wide smile on his face, and he continues hurriedly, "What if she were to stay dressed as a man?"

I am silent for a moment, and then I say, "The only thing resulting out of that would be a tantrum."

"No – listen," he says, the eagerness not gone from his voice. "She is dressed as a man, and if someone should so happen to see her passing by a window, they would not know that a woman is staying in a house that previously held none."

"Hmm, yes," I say dryly. "A long-haired, pregnant man walking around would cause no disturbance at all."

"Erik," he says, now quite serious. "She would cause far less attention if she wears a shirt and breeches than if she walks about in a bright pink, lurid and hideous gown. Someone would simply think that their eyes are tricking them or they didn't see properly. It couldn't hurt anything to have her stay dressed as that."

I think for a moment. He is right, though. Nothing would be hideously wrong to have her stay in trousers. It will take time for her to feel comfortable, but I believe she will understand. I finally look back at Taurin and say, "Very well. But _you _will be the one to tell her."


	17. The Next Step

_The Next Step_

I watch, leaning on the doorjamb, very amused. Taurin is trying to calm her down and coax her into acceptance.

"Really, Christine," he says, "it isn't that bad. It is simply a precaution. You will simply look like a man."

My smirk grows slightly.

"I am _pregnant_," she says loudly and slowly. "Do you not understand that?"

He is quiet for a moment. "You are a fat man." I can _hear_ his restrained laughter, and it infuriates Christine even more.

"Stop!" she shouts, and she looks at me. "Stop laughing, both of you! How would _you _like to be forced to wear dresses?"

Taurin does start laughing, and he nearly doubles over, clutching the wound in his side. "Stop it – stop, Christine," he wheezes.

She gives an outraged shriek and turns around, her dark, curly hair whipping out behind her. Without a word or a glance, she marches past me. I raise an eyebrow at Taurin, who responds with a mockingly-sympathetic shrug. Sighing, I follow her to the small bedroom, where she fumes silently.

"I would like something to eat," she says, not looking at me. Her little mouth is still puckered with anger. Although I am tempted to smile, I nod gravely to humor her and lead her to the kitchen, where I gather a poor meal of bread, cheese, and water, but she eats it all quickly and says nothing about it.

"I suppose I will be forced to stay in _these _particular clothes, then?" she bursts out savagely.

"Of course not," I say, my voice as calm as hers is angry. "You will receive clean ones, just the same as everyone else."

Her eyebrows raise, and she then looks at a spot on my shoulder. "You have a hole in your shirt," she says, surprisingly civil. I nod in agreement, and she offers, "I could fix it for you."

"You can sew?" I ask, surprised.

She places her hands on her hips defensively and says, "Yes, I can! I am not worthless."

"Well, then, we shall put you to work," I say, going to rummage in the main sitting room, where Khan and two others are speaking quietly. She follows me and watches while I look for a few minutes before pulling out a small bag and handing it to her. "Supplies," I say, answering her question. "Khan, please take her back to her bedroom and stay while I gather a few things."

When they have gone, I go to the men and gather the ripped shirts and trousers. If Christine is to be here, she could be doing something useful. Suddenly, I find myself smiling slightly, and I pause in my work. It isn't in my character to simply smile. But I quickly rid myself of the confusion and finish my task. Christine sets to work immediately when presented with her small job. I speak quietly to Khan and ask him to watch her for an hour or so while I take care of my aching stomach and head. As I gather something to eat, I allow my mind to wander momentarily. It wanders to Christine, bent over her chore in the other room, and once again I am urged to smile. But at this thought, I frown. Attachments are dangerous. Perhaps I _am_…fond of her – after all, she is so remarkably naïve, who could not be attracted to such innocence? And she is so young, too. The very life that brims in her is tantalizing. She has shown her strength in more ways than one, and I can see the growth in her.

It is hard to concentrate on less-pleasant affairs when Christine's image calls to me, but I force myself to think of the next plans. The only path I see before me is to wait. We must wait until their tempers have cooled and the guards have been reduced. To make another move right now would be foolhardy and unwise. This frustrates me, for I am not a patient man. But I will make it through.

The house is silent. It is almost dark now, and the last few rays of sunlight feebly creep through the small windows. I cannot remember the last time I have slept, and my head swims slightly. But I cannot force Khan into staying awake all night. I have taken Christine as my responsibility. It was my plan that she come here, and I will not give her to others. And so I return to the room, where Christine has fallen asleep, and Khan is dozing. He leaves, trying to look reluctant but failing miserably. I take a seat in the usual chair by the bed and watch her.

It is too easy to become hypnotized by the gentle rhythmic breathing. With heavy efforts, I force my eyes to remain open for a while longer, but I can feel myself failing. Black is clouding my vision, and I cannot stop myself from succumbing to a dream-filled sleep.

_The men kneel on the ground, their faces pale. Some look outraged, others terrified, and others merely curious. Most look at the ground, but others watch a tall man as he paces back and forth before them. A smoldering pile of burned wood and cloth lay only a few yards away. Two horses are tied and watch the scene solemnly. _

"_The time is short, and we cannot linger," says the man, his dark hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. "We need your answers. Although most of you will refuse to give up your brainwashed ways, a few might be courageous enough to look at this from a more correct angle." _

_All look down at this, faces contorted with deep thought. The man's white mask gleams dully in the bright light. Some of the kneeling men throw anxious glances at it, but the tall man does not seem to care. A bird chirps in a faraway tree. _

"_Who will be willing to stand with us?" the man presses, stopping in the middle. "Speak now." _

_Slowly, very slowly, one man rises, and soon two more, but the other ten remain on the ground, their faces fixed with the decision. _

"_Very well," says the masked man, looking at the three men. Three out of ten was not a failure at all. He sighed, the afternoon breeze brushing over his face_ –

I wake, my eyes opening instantly. I take in many things at once. There is a single candle burning on the small bedside table. The night is still present. I am nearly sprawled in my chair. And my mask is off.

My eyes go to Christine, who is clutching it with both hands, her mouth opened and her eyes horrified. She takes a step back as I stand.

"I – I'm sorry," she whispers, dropping the mask. "I – I simply – I didn't – I – "

The pure, venomous fury I feel must show in my eyes, for when I take a step toward her, she turns and scrambles around the bed. A game of cat-and-mouse ensues. The room is ridiculously small, and she uses the bed as a shield between us, her blue eyes still terrified. When she runs for the door, I am able to grab her arm. With an animalistic growl erupting from my chest, I push her to the bed and force her there, where she squeals and wriggles, now closing her eyes.

"You wanted to see?" I scream. "Look! Why aren't you seeing? _Look at me_!"

"I'm sorry!" she sobs. "Please – I didn't know – "

"You didn't know what?" I thunder, shaking her slightly when she continues to close her eyes. "Didn't know _what_, Christine?"

My ears pick up the sound of hurried footsteps and voices, and I instantly climb off of her and the bed, bending to retrieve my mask and put it back on just in time to have the door open and all the men crowd around the entrance, looking confused.

"Oh," says Khan, looking from Christine, huddled on the bed, to me. "We assumed – by the raised voices…" He trails off, looking at me.

"Yes," I say, my voice as controlled as I can manage. "We merely had a disagreement. Khan, I'll ask you to watch her for the remainder of the evening. There are some…things I must attend to."

He nods, apparently dumbstruck, but I do not wait for an answer and instead sweep out of the room, my head still pounding. I quickly gather up my heavy coat and hat, and I leave the little, ugly house, the cold wind biting into my skin the moment it can. My mind is quite focused. If I continue to focus it, I will not spiral down into that horrible rage. So I watch myself ready the horse, mount it, and take off through the small, dank streets. As I ride, the homes get progressively smaller and shabbier. Soon I burst out of the city, as if it had never even been there at all, and I ride for a few more minutes, heading East, through the fields of wheat, corn, barley. The fall is taking the crops, however, and the laborers are hard-pressed to harvest the rest to meet the quota.

Finally, I gallop into the dirt street, and I pull the bit, slowing the animal down and allowing him to walk through the rows of shacks. I know these. I can envision the family that lived in the shack with the glass window. I do not know if they still live there. The next shack belongs – or belonged – to a toothless old woman who was barely able to climb out of bed in the morning, much less go out to work. I never asked for her name…what a selfish, ungrateful child I was.

And this shack…here in front of me. I slide off and, unable to find somewhere to tie up the horse, simply pat him and hope he remains close by. There is a different smell out here – one of dirt, bodies, rotting vegetables, and yet I can smell flowers and the ripe fields and the nearby woods. I enter this particular shack – there is no such thing as a lock here – and stand in a single, filthy room, a harsh smell of unwashed everything coming over me. There is a slight shuffle in the corner, and a gruff, drawling voice barks,

"Who's-dere? Get ou'!"

"Don't bother standing, old man, you'll break something," I say.

There is silence for a moment, and then the same voice says, though this time it's clear and healthy-sounding, "You couldn't wait for a reasonable hour? I am, after all, an old man. I don't assume you were talking about me breaking possessions, by the way." He laughs to himself and continues, "Well, sit down on something. I have nothing to drink but rancid water, and nothing to eat but rotting ears of corn. Do you find yourself hungry?"

I refuse his facetious offer and take a seat on a table that also doubles as a chair when the occasion arises. I hear him hobbling around for a few more moments before he comes and sits at the foot of the small bed, across from me. The moonlight spills through the tiny window onto his face. It is narrow, covered by a dirty head of hair and beard. There is a surprising absence of wrinkles and blemishes on his old, weathered face, and his dark eyes shine brightly through the mask of age.

"Well," he says, "there is no light. It is, after all, the middle of the night, and light would arouse suspicion. More than two months since you've come. And what has happened with your brilliant scheme? I suppose you are now the head of the Oligarchy – in my home!"

"You know the answers to that," I say, quite sharply. "You were right; there were too many holes in the plans. I counted too much upon luck and too little upon strategy and the foolproof plan."

"And so," he prods, his voice gentling now, "what are you left with?"

I sigh. "A pregnant, highly naïve half-wife whose only wish is to live in her own world. Most of my men have been scattered. There have been three casualties. I've lost my most valuable seat in the Oligarchy thanks to this 'wife.' And now I am simply waiting."

I see him nod, shadows cast on his face. "Sometimes time is the only thing you can obtain. And so – this half-wife of yours. What value is she?"

"Tremendous," I say, stretching my aching limbs and yawning. "She is lawfully married to the head of the Oligarchy – Raoul. But I also wed her by their own clerk, and now she is pregnant. This is her first."

There is a silence for a while. "You must keep her, I think," says the old man. "I would think that, while she is alive, Raoul is unable to marry someone else and have children. You will keep her alive for the precise reason that he _knows _you will. He knows you are not stupid enough to simply toss her out into the streets."

"There is nothing I desire to do more," I say, sounding more bitter than I intended.

"Ah, what has she done?" he asks, sounding amused. I run a finger over my mask, and he watches for a moment before saying, "She took off your mask?"

I nod.

"And you're angry about this?"

Slightly taken back, I nod once again, and he laughs,

"Why ever should you be? It's only natural. Your mask is not exactly a secret. Good heavens, _I _took off your mask. It will happen, Erik, time and time again. You probably frightened the poor creature to death. And do you think she will _want_ to stay when you are found? She will willingly return to Raoul when given the choice. And yes, Erik – " for I had opened my mouth to interrupt " – I say when, not if. I would keep a close watch on the neighborhood in which you live. And so, what is your next step?"

I resist an urge to glare at him. He has always been like this. He will tell me what to do and then ask what I will do. Perhaps there is purpose in it, but I have never enjoyed answering this question. _What is your next step_? He knows perfectly well that I will do what I think best, but his advice is always there, as is the question. _What is your next step_?

"I will put a watch on the neighborhood, as you suggested, and I will…try to be kinder to Christine." The last bit is a struggle to say, but I do so.

"If you are simply going to try, do not do it at all. Do it, or do not do it. Erik, allow me to pose a question: Why do we degrade women so much when everything depends upon them? I think you have also fallen into that trap, the snare of the thought that men are superior to the female sex. But I have seen the strongest, most unbreakable spirits that reside in the soft form of a woman. Do not judge her so."

With an irritated sigh, I rub my exposed cheek. The purpose of my visit was not to discuss Christine. But, then again, my conversations with him have never gone the way I intend.

"I see the dawn," he says, and I look out of the small window to see the smallest sliver of light breaking through the sky. I stand and thank him for the visit before stepping outside. The horse has wandered down a few shacks, and I mount quickly and gallop back to the house, racing the light. The morning air stirs and refreshes my tired, foggy mind. When I near the city, I slow the horse down, afraid its clattering hooves might waken some of the more curious inhabitants.

The sun is still climbing over the houses when I walk inside. There is silence – perhaps a good sign. To my surprise, I find Khan sitting in the front room. Christine is on the couch, fast asleep with a small blanket tossed over her.

"She refused to go to bed," says Khan, and I turn to look at him. "She insisted on waiting for your return to speak with you." He smiles a little. "As you can see, you were gone quite a while, and she has had a bit of excitement." There is an almost uncomfortable pause. "She told me what happened," he finally says, his smile slowly tilting downward to a frown. "She cried for a very, very long time and kept apologizing to you, even when you were gone."

"Yes, I'm sure," I say nastily. "I believe she was sorry she took it off and saw, not sorry for me."

Khan sighs heavily, turning to look to the window. He stands, still not looking at me, and says, "I think I will leave you to brood and drown in self-pity by yourself. But I hope you remember, Erik, that she is your wife, and she is a person with real feelings."

I roll my eyes as he leaves and take his chair. However, as my gaze wanders to Christine, I cannot help but begin to feel ashamed of myself. She shifts on the small couch, and the blanket slides off. I stand and drape it back over her again, unable to help the small smile that comes to me as I see her in trousers and a shirt. After a moment, I return to my seat and await the conversation she so insists upon.


	18. Christine

_Christine_

_There is a man with no face, and he is haunting my dream. I try not to look at him, but he draws my gaze nonetheless, and I feel raw and vulnerable as I simply stand there, staring at him. Even without eyes, however, I can tell he is feeling…something. Something akin to shame or sorrow, for his shoulders slouch and his head is slightly dropped. There is nothing around us but swirling blackness. I am not cold, but I cannot remember what it feels like to be warm, either. _

_His head lifts, slowly, and his blank face is directed toward mine, as if he is looking at me. A sudden chill floods through my stomach, and I have an unexplainable terror of him approaching me. When he takes a step closer, I stumble back two more steps. Our game goes on for a few more minutes until he reaches up to press a hand over his nonexistent face. When he takes his large hand away, I begin to scream, covering my eyes and trying not to see his face that –_

When I wake up, the dream dissolves quickly, and I can hardly remember why I am panting. It takes me a few moments to remember where I am and why I am there. I sit up, placing a hand on my stomach, and jump a little when I see Erik there, staring intently at me. It is hard not to stare at his mask when I know what it hides, and so I train my eyes to stare at the floor.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asks, his voice quiet.

I nod, just a little. There is silence, and my eyes flicker back up to him. He looks as if he is struggling with something internally, a thought or emotion that he isn't sure what to do with. I am also wrestling with something; I cannot bring myself to say what I have waited all night to say. It is only three words, but I am terrified of his reaction, of his rejection. To prolong the silence, I play with the too-long sleeves, twisting them between my fingers and staring at my knees. We both decide to speak at the same time:

"I must tell you – "

"Christine, do not say that you have – "

Immediately, I silence myself, a habit of old. When men talk, women are silent. He raises his seen eyebrow and says,

"Do not say that you have waited all night to apologize for what happened. Now…what is it you wanted to say?"

I am quiet for another minute: that is exactly what I was going to do. He sees this quickly and says,

"What happened would have happened later, and there is no way to change this by apologizing." I nod, still not thoroughly convinced of his nonchalance, and he says, "Would you like something to eat?"

I follow him to the kitchen. It is most strange to see a man preparing food, but he does so, calmly and almost relaxed. I am not going to complain about this. Lately, I have been constantly hungry, and I never deny food when it is offered. He sets the plate before me in silence, and I begin to eat after a quiet 'thank you.'

The sun is bright this morning, and it seeps in through the plain cotton curtains, lighting the tiny kitchen. I think about many things, the most prominent being my rounded belly, but, right next to it is curiosity about Erik. I swallow rather harshly and look at him, saying, trying to keep my voice from trembling,

"May I ask you something?"

He nods, his piercing eyes fixed upon mine. I ask, "Might I know where you went?"

"I visited an old friend." His answer is short, impersonal, and I return my eyes to my plate. There had been, however small it was, a layer of warmth between us, but now…there is nothing there.

To my surprise, however, he continues. "He gave me some advice and, because I trust him, I am going to follow his advice." There is another minute of hesitant silence. "If you would like," he says slowly, "I will tell you about where I was born and…the journey I took throughout my life."

I nearly drop my fork as I look up at him. "I would like that very much," I say, my voice a near-whisper. He sighs, rising from his chair.

"Come," he says. "I will need a drink first."

----

I sit on the couch, very inelegantly as I am still unfamiliar with the bump on my stomach and the clothes in which I am. He stands before me, hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes looking at the window. The sun illuminates his face. For the first time, I see slight wrinkles around his eyes and the corner of his exposed lip. I am struck again by how tall he is.

"Before I begin," he says, running a hand through his dark hair. "I make a disclaimer and tell you now that I am not a saint, I have never been one, nor will I become one."

"A saint?" I question.

"Perfection," he says. "I am not perfect, Christine. I have done bad things, and I will not hide them from you."

A familiar thrill runs through my stomach. For a very brief second, I wonder if I really do want to hear his story. But there is no time to say anything else, for he turns to face me and begins:

"I am not the first of my kind. I am not the first one who realized the corruptness of the government. I did not make up these ideas that the Oligarchy finds so revolting. In fact, I am positive that as long as there is a government, someone will oppose it. Happiness is not for all men, Christine. Someone will always be unhappy. It is simply the way life was designed.

"But those who took the first steps to oppose the Oligarchy took different ones than I did. Rather than submerse themselves to dig at the root, they moved themselves as far away as they could. A group of young men gathered together with their wives and small children and left the laborers' village in the dead of night, taking only what they could carry. They walked for a very, very long time, and they starved and suffered. But their vision of utopia was enough sustenance to keep them sustained, I suppose, for they stopped in the heart of a large forest and settled, away from the iron fist of the government. They painstakingly cleared a few acres of land and built small shacks. Their living conditions were no different than the ones from which they had just escaped. However, there was no one to tell them they could not better their shacks, no one to tell them that they had to give up seventy-five percent of their food, no one to tell the women to bear child after child until the effort finally kills her. And so they thrived.

"Their shacks turned into small, modest cottages. Their two acres turned into five, and their small gardens became rows and rows of vegetables. The men hunted small game for special occasions. The only rule that these people had was to care for one another. If one man's harvest was terrible, everyone provided for them during the off-season. The small community grew and grew for ten years. It was then that I was born.

"I was the first dishonorable child of the community. My mother was young – seventeen, I believe – and she was in love with a man fifteen years her senior. Even though the community believed in being generous, infidelity was still looked down upon. She was given a small shack away from the rest to raise me. My appearance did nothing to help her. It was believed I was her curse, a burden for her to have as a punishment for her sins. She treated me as such. She was not mature enough to handle herself, let alone a child, and I do not blame her. None of the other children's parents allowed me to come near, and so I entertained myself in the woods. I learned…quite a lot during those first years. I left my mother and the other children alone and taught myself all that I could, mostly by listening through windows and open doors. I did not understand much of what I heard. The term 'oligarchy' was repeated hundreds of times, but I still listened.

"Ten years passed. They were surprisingly peaceful. The scandal of my mother had died down. She was allowed to be a part of the community once again, though there was no hope of a marriage for her now. And so, one afternoon, there was a marriage party for a young couple. My mother was attending, leaving me to do as I pleased. The entire community was at the celebration, and I went to the woods, the sun hot on my back. I still remember the feel of the warm wind and the smell of the fresh, clean air. It was there that I found Faye, a girl of about eighteen or nineteen years of age. She was crying by a tree.

'What is it?' I asked. 'Are you hurt?'

She snapped at me to leave her in peace, but I persisted.

'Why aren't you at the party? Why are you here by yourself?'

'I'm not wanted there,' she sobbed pathetically. '_He _would send me away.'

'Who?' I asked.

"She gave a rather loud wail and said, 'Why did he do this to me? How could he marry her? _Her_? Of all the girls, and I was the one who told him first that I loved him…' She had still not looked at me. I think they all believed it was bad luck to look me in the eye.

"But I did not get a chance to respond, because a loud, heart-stopping _crack _filled the air. Screams erupted from the direction of the celebration, and there were indistinguishable shouts, more _cracking _sounds, and the sobs of people. Faye rose to her feet, the tears still shining on her cheeks, and she ran toward the village. I followed, but I stopped her at the edge of the clearing and pulled her down behind a log, hissing at her to be quiet and still. My heart was hammering in my chest. I remember the feeling: like someone was inside, trying to get out.

"We looked at the acres of village from the log. Unknown men in red uniforms with long guns in their hands were running, shooting at every person that moved, small children, old women… Faye was sobbing by me, whispering her fears out loud and asking God that her family would be safe. Does this bother you to hear? I suppose the details, although necessary, will be done away with.

"The massacre did not take long. Faye would not move for a very long time. I resorted to smacking her face to get her to stand up and run. When we were at a considerable distance, she stopped for breath, and I turned to see that smoke was curling up into the sky. She saw it, too, and asked,

'Do you...think anyone is still alive?'

"I was silent for a moment. 'No,' I said. As we stood, we could suddenly hear the rough sound of undergrowth cracking as someone made their way clumsily toward us. I whispered for her to hide in a thick clump of nearby bushes. She did so, and I picked up a good-sized rock and scaled a nearby tree. A man dressed in a red uniform stumbled into view, sweating and out of breath. He looked around, confused, and I heard him mutter,

'I was sure they were here.'

"My rock hit him, hard, squarely in the forehead. He was dazed and fell to his knees, clutching the blood that was streaming down his face. Quietly, I dropped from the tree and approached. The gun was very heavy. He didn't see me until I had it pointed at him. I was still awkward with it, but I had seen enough at the village to know how to fire.

'Why are you trying to kill us?' I asked calmly. I could hear Faye rustling in the bushes behind me. He did not answer for a minute, staring at me with cool indifference. His gaze raked over my crude mask.

'You can't kill me,' he said. 'You have been raised to be soft and weak. But we have been raised courageous and strong, and I know how to kill. So give me the gun!'

"He reached for it suddenly, and I…I pulled the trigger, the kick of the gun knocking me off my feet. I stood up to find him on the ground, completely still. Faye emerged, gasping for breath as her annoying sobs robbed her of air.

'Why did you kill him?' she screamed. 'Why?'

'He was going to kill us,' I said, now more than bit impatient. 'He killed our families.'

"Her stare was cold and disgusted. 'He killed _my _families. You don't have a family.'

"There was a small moment of silence, and so I turned my back on her and began to hurry through the trees. She followed after a moment, though, and said, 'Don't you think you're leaving me here! We don't have anywhere to go.'

"I did not know where I was going anymore. By now I was farther from the village than I had ever been. I kept heading West, toward the sun, but it was disappearing. Faye was complaining constantly behind me, whining about her feet and stomach, but I didn't say anything to her. I knew that she would continue to follow me because she didn't know what else to do. Finally, when it was too dark for me to feel my way through the brush safely, I settled down beside a tree and, after enduring a few more minutes of Faye's complaints, we fell asleep.

"This routine continued for another two days. There wasn't much to eat, I remember, because Faye was constantly whining about how hungry she was. But we managed to get by. One night, however, we were woken by loud noises close by. Faye followed me as I crept closer to the noise, and she began to whisper that we shouldn't go, that we should turn around, but I had to know what it was.

"It was a large camp of militia. They were all talking loudly and laughing about something stupid. My stomach dropped and my very blood turned to ice. It was the same group that had massacred our little town. Faye began to pant, and, through the light of the moon and the quiet glow of the fires, I could see that she had begun to shift uneasily, her eyes focused on the men.

'Be quiet,' I hissed, but she didn't seem to hear me and licked her lips.

'We need to leave,' she said, and her voice was hoarse. 'We should run now.'

'No,' I said immediately. 'We will make too much noise. Follow me. We'll go around them slowly so they can't hear us.'

"I should have been smarter, but I wasn't. I should have known that she would panic, given her past actions, but I was confident in her complete trust in me as the leader. We crept around the edge of the campsite, and we actually got halfway around. A man suddenly looked right at us, and we froze. I knew he couldn't see us. It was too dark, but Faye didn't know this. She shrieked outright and ran. At once, nearly three-fourths of the men rose from their places. I moved away and climbed a nearby tree. They raced after her. I could hear them crashing through the undergrowth. It did not take them long. Ten minutes later, they dragged her back to the camp. She was screaming and crying. The men questioned her for a few minutes, but she couldn't say anything.

"They aren't stupid people, Christine. They are very smart. The men pieced two and two together and decided she was from the massacred village. They decided to shoot her, but one man had taken a fancy to her, I suppose, because he appealed for her, and she was handed over to him. That was the last time I've ever seen her. And I'm not proud that I did not intervene somehow, that I did not cause a distraction so she could escape. I simply sat up, safe, in the tree and watched her cry. They would have shot me instantly, so I stayed in that tree long after they packed up and left, Faye stumbling behind her new master, trying to keep her tears silent.

"A few days later, I emerged from the forest. The sun was brighter than I had ever seen it. There were no trees to shade me, and the light was unfamiliar. Still, I pressed on with eagerness and curiosity. My stomach also made me march. I had not eaten in a solid meal in days, and I could feel the effects. Not far from the forest, I came upon the laborers' village. It was nearing evening, but there was enough sun out to see, so most of the people were outside, working under the hot sun. I wandered through the deserted village, looking at the run-down shacks and filthy roads. A scrawny dog barked at me, but, other than that, I was completely alone. I was a boy of ten, and I was still drunk on my wonder years of the little community in the woods. I went into a shack and began to look for food. If one man could not provide for himself, everyone else helped him.

"So Claude found me an hour later, emptying his small cupboard of the little food it had, and he nearly killed me right then. However, he noticed my clothing. It was much, much finer than anything else he had seen somebody wear in the laborers' village, so he demanded to know from whence I came.

'The woods,' I said, quite indignantly, if I remember correctly. He asked me a few more questions and suddenly became very excited when he understood exactly from whence I came. I do not want to make this very long and boring for you, dear, so I will only skim the next few years. Claude allowed me to stay with him for a few days, but he warned that I was not to be there for long. However, days turned into months, and the months grew into an entire year. I still stayed with Claude. He taught me more than anyone else. After teaching me to read and write, he introduced me to religion, politics, economics, education, and I absorbed everything eagerly. I could not learn enough. He fully explained what the Oligarchy was and where he was living and why.

"When I was almost fifteen, Claude finally confessed the reason he knew so much. You understand, darling, that most laborers consider themselves lucky if they are able to write their name. Claude told me that he had, in fact, been a member of the Oligarchy. He discovered, however, that he was going to be eliminated because of his ideas and beliefs, and he fled to the laborers' village and had been there ever since.

'It's better than being dead,' he would say harshly. 'Sometimes.'

"And so I was taught the inside secrets of the government, the true intentions of the Oligarchy, and the loopholes in their laws. Claude was the main benefactor of my idea, Christine. He told me of those who he knew disagreed with the Oligarchy but were too afraid to stand against it. And so, around my sixteenth or seventeenth birthday, I finally gathered a small group of men and began."

Erik looks at me shrewdly. I think he is trying to detect some form of disgust or anger, but I feel none. Although his story fascinates me and I will spend many days thinking of it, there are only two words he said that ring in my mind continuously: "dear" and "darling."


	19. Decisions and the Second Departure

_Decisions and the Second Departure_

My stomach seems to grow overnight. There is no denying my condition now. The large bump pushes away all doubts I have had. It also brings on a new set of problems. I am always hungry, and I find that when I am not eating, I am extremely irritable. It is different for me; I have never had a huge appetite before. I also find that when I am not sitting down, I am bumping into things or knocking objects over. My back aches. And so I sit and eat most days. None of the meals are very elegant, but I take everything Erik gives me without complaint or criticism.

Whenever Erik vanishes on a mysterious trip for the day, I spend it with my brother. He has been deemed strong enough to fire a pistol, and so we are mostly left alone (although I know that Nadir Khan stands just outside the door for precautionary reasons). Taurin is able to stand and walk slowly now. He hobbles to a chair next to mine, a hand over his bullet wound. With a sigh, he sits down.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I ask, taking in his closed eyes with some alarm. He shakes his head slowly and says, "I simply need to be out of that bed for a few hours."

A few minutes pass in a contemplative silence, and I debate within myself for those few minutes. But the lonely side wins, and so I lean closer to him and say,

"Taurin, may I speak with you about something?"

His dark eyes open, and he looks at me before nodding. "What is it?"

I suddenly feel very foolish and hesitate for a few moments. "It's…well, I – perhaps it isn't so important after all."

"Everything you think is important, Christine," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle and kind. Perhaps he doesn't really mean what he says, but I somehow cannot let myself believe that.

"Taurin," I finally begin, "I am several months along – "

"Obviously," he laughs.

I smile to humor him and continue, "And…Erik hasn't said anything about it – not once. It is as if the baby doesn't exist, as if it won't change our lives."

He is quiet for just a moment and then says confidently, "You must think that he hasn't thought about this at all, Christine, but you must believe me when I say that he has. I have known him much, much longer than you. He simply isn't one to share his ideas with anyone. He knows what he is doing."

And this comment seems to settle any doubts that Taurin had. I, however, am still not fully convinced. The moment to speak with Erik alone does not come until later that night. I need to bathe, and we both undergo the few awkward minutes while I undress nervously and slide into the tub, watching his back fiercely. It takes me a few minutes to relax enough to ask him what has been plaguing me. I do not have enough courage to jump right into the subject, and so I stall by saying, a slightly trembling voice,

"Taurin is feeling much better. I spoke to him, and he says that he does not like to be locked in the bedroom all day."

Erik does not answer. After a few minutes of silence, I ask, once again hating the way my voice sounds frightened and shaking,

"Erik? May I speak with you about something?"

"Hmm?" he responds, his voice light and disinterested. "Yes, what is it?"

"I – well, Erik, it's about…about the baby." My heart seems to stop for a moment as I wait for his answer. He says, still in the same impersonal voice,

"What about it?"

For a few seconds, I cannot help but sit with my mouth open, disbelieving. And suddenly I snap, "Don't turn around. I'm getting out." Savagely, I grab a towel and dress, yanking on the now-familiar men's clothing, hate and anger and hopelessness welling inside of my chest. I storm out of the room without waiting for Erik, my cheeks flushed. My growling stomach pulls me to the kitchen, and I pull anything I see toward me, slamming a plate down and throwing everything on it. Erik walks in a few moments later, the epitome of quiescence, and leans against the doorjamb, watching me.

"You moved surprisingly quickly, given your condition," he says lightly. I can tell he is pleased with his own joke, but it does nothing to amuse me.

"What condition?" I snap. "According to you, nothing is different with me!" I open a cupboard and reach for something on the top shelf. It is impossibly high for me to grab, yet I still stretch for it. It seems so important that I get that…

Erik moves silently behind me and picks it up effortlessly. He offers it to me without a word, but I shove it away and snarl, "I was getting that myself! You think that I must be helped along and watched all the time, but I am capable of things! I just – " A sob suddenly escapes, and I turn around, sitting in a nearby chair. "I'm so tired," I say. "I ache everywhere, and I don't know what's going to happen."

"Nobody else does, either," says Erik.

"No – that isn't what I mean," I say, staring at my hands. "I need to know what your plan is for the baby. You seem as if you simply don't even know that I am expecting. Are you…are you even happy about it?"

There is a heavy moment of silence. "Perhaps it will take some time to become used to the idea," he finally says.

"You have had months!" I say, turning to look at him. "How much longer do you need? I can't bear to be alone in this. I need to know that you will help me with this. You need to be here!"

"Have you forgotten how I was raised?" he snarls, his manner suddenly harsh and irritable. "Have you forgotten _this_?" He suddenly takes off his mask, and I shudder and turn away involuntarily. His hand, cold and bony, seizes my shoulder and steals my warmth. "Can you imagine how the idea of a child – _my _child – terrifies me?"

His hand is suddenly gone, and he stops himself abruptly. I do not think he intended to ask me his last question. There is a long moment of silence, and he finally sighs.

"Come with me. There are things I must attend to."

I sit in the small parlor for the rest of the afternoon while he speaks with several men. They never speak loudly enough for me to catch the entire conversation, so my attention drifts. For the first time, I wonder over names of the baby and whether I wish for a boy or a girl. I envision a little girl, her dark hair curly, her eyes bright and her cheeks pink. But then I picture a little boy who somehow resembles Taurin with the look of mischief in his sparkling eyes. I cannot decide which one I adore more, and I put a hand on my stomach as if the baby will tell me all I wish to know.

Late that night, I doze as Erik writes a letter. He will not tell me the subject or for whom it is, but I am content to watch him, shadowed deeply by the candlelight. The bed is warm and comfortable, and I feel myself slipping away into sleep.

"Erik," I say, my voice heavy with tiredness.

The scratching of the pen stops, and he looks at me. "Yes?"

"I'm afraid, too," I whisper, closing my eyes. He doesn't respond.

----

A creak echoes around the room, and it wakes me suddenly. I sit up, peering at the gloom, and recognize the tall frame.

"Erik?" I whisper. He approaches the bed. "What time – "

His fingers come to my lips, and I silence myself, feeling his long fingers press down. He then takes my shoulder and pulls me out of the bed. We exit the room, but not before he grabs the small coat and boots that I wear. After closing the door, he says quietly,

"Put your shoes on, quickly."

As I do so (I am forced to sit down to pull on the boots), I say, my own voice soft, "Where are we going?"

He waits until I have finished with my shoes and pulls me up, helping me into the coat. "They are coming tonight. I will not be surprised if they are on this very street – Hush!" I was beginning to say something, but his tone silences me. "We have enough time to quietly take you out of the house and away from the city." He takes my hand and leads me down the hallway, toward the larger bedroom.

"No one else can come with us?" I say.

He shakes his head. "There is no time, and we cannot risk you being followed."

"How many are coming?" I have grown too much to misunderstand the severity of the moment, and the fact that Erik is silent for a moment reassures any hopeful doubts I have.

"Enough," is his only comment. "I am only grateful we were forewarned." We reach the back doorway. Erik knocks on the door of the bedroom, and Nadir Khan emerges, swathed in black. The men look at each other for a moment.

"Are you ready?" Erik asks, and Khan nods. "We can only be thankful that I followed Claude's advice. We shall see what happens." Khan goes outside, but the door remains slightly open, as if waiting for someone.

My heart suddenly disappears, and my mouth becomes dry as I look at Erik. "What?" I say, my voice becoming shrill and panicky. "What – Erik – what are you talking about? _You_ are taking me! You! Where is Taurin? You cannot stay – " He quickly puts a hand over my mouth, and I twist away.

"Christine, silence!" he hisses. "Stop, Christine! There is no time. Khan is taking you far away from here where you will be safe. No – listen!" He pulls me toward him and wraps his arms around me to stop my movement. His mouth is close to my ear as he says, "We have worked too hard for this, Christine. It was inevitable. We can only hope that _something_ good will come out of tonight." I am aware of the tears that run down my cheeks. "You must not be seen, and you must not be caught. If you do, there isn't a possibility of getting you back."

"Why does _he_ take me?" I sniff childishly. His restricting hold has turned into some kind of embrace, and I clutch him longingly. "Why can it not be you or Taurin? Taurin is hurt; he can't stay!"

At this, he pulls back, and I see a facetious smile on his face. "You know as well as I do that he is well..._enough_, and he would not leave even if I told him. Now." He opens the door wider. "It is time for you to go. Do not look back. Do not come back."

"Wait – " His touch is finally taken away, and I hold onto the door. "Erik! Erik – please – kiss me."

I am surprised – he does. I had expected him to say something like, _There is no time_, or perhaps he would not do anything at all, merely return inside; but he does, and the surprise of it adds to the kiss. It is desperate, manic in its longing to convey every emotion. There is a sudden crash that comes from the house, and he pulls away quickly, leaving me breathless and slightly disoriented for a moment. Then the door shuts. I stand, blinking stupidly, before Khan touches my shoulder.

"It is time to go," he says. I nod distractedly, staring at the door. None-too-gently, he takes my arm and pulls me away, and soon we are hurrying through the final streets of the city, toward the fields. Across the fields is the forest, dark and menacing in the blackness. I am not fast. My stomach makes it impossible, but I push myself and try to keep up with Khan.

"We are almost out of the city," he whispers, panting slightly as we stop for a moment. But his panting is not the only sound. There is the loud clattering of hoofs, and we both hold our breath. Khan has gone very still, and he whispers something under his breath. We begin to move again, but faster, and he speaks as we hurry.

"If anything happens to me, get to the forest. Go straight through until you find the little brook. Do you understand? Head East – the way that the stream goes. Follow it until you find the rocks. Can you do that?"

"Yes," I gasp, saying nothing more to save breath. The horses are getting closer. There is no way to outrun them. We have just reached the outside of the city when Khan turns around, pulling me behind him. He yanks a pistol out of his belt and –

_CRACK!_

The sound rips into my ear, and I hear the squeal of a horse.

"Go!" Khan yells at me, and I turn, Khan following behind. There is a moment of crazed silence, and then,

_CRACK!_

I scream as I plunge to the ground. Khan has fallen, and his heavy body trips my legs. For a frantic minute, I pull on his shoulder, whispering urgently, "Get up! Get up!" It is then that I notice my hand is wet and a metallic smell taints the air. Squinting through the darkness, I see that his eyes are closed. He is not moving. I struggle for a few precious seconds staggering to my feet, and in those moments the remaining horse and rider have come up behind me. Someone grabs me before I am able to run, and I scream hysterically while someone yells my name.

"Christine! Oh my – Christine! Stop, it's me!"

I turn around and look through the darkness to see Raoul's face, considerably older-looking and thinner than ever before. But at this moment, his features are softened, and he pulls me toward him.

"Christine, I can't believe I've finally found you – months and months of searching, and you're here! What has happened to you? And you – you're…" He puts a hand on my stomach, more gently than I expected. "We have time to talk, but it is not now. Come with me."

He walks over to the horse, but I stand, staring at the body on the ground. He was killed as if he did not matter, as if he did not have people who cared about him and waited for him to return. We would never reach the brook or the rocks in the east. He protected me with his own body, and now he is dead.

"Christine?" I push off Raoul's hand that rests on my shoulder, staring at the body.

"You killed him," I say, my voice a whisper.

Raoul is silent for a moment. "I had to."

"He was your friend." _He was my friend_.

"He was a terrorist and a traitor. Come, Christine. We cannot stay here."

But I still stay rooted to the ground, my gaze drifting up to the big mass of forest that looms before me. _Do not be caught_. I have failed…again. After all of my exertions, I have failed.

"Christine – _get on the horse_." His tone leaves no room for contradiction or argument, so I allow him to help me clamber onto the horse, groaning slightly as the ache in my stomach lurches.

Raoul jumps up behind me. He kicks the horse, and we clatter back into the city. Perhaps I should cry, but I have shed too many tears to learn that they do little, and so I hold them back. The rough jostling of the horse hurts my stomach, and I hiss slightly as the horse clambers its way up a hill. I can see the mansion, and my heart drops. I close my eyes, wishing it would disappear, but, when I open them, we have arrived at the front doors. Two men dressed in black come running out, and they take the horse away as soon as I clumsily slide off its back. Raoul hurries me inside. Although the mansion is warm, I have never felt so cold. Finally, when we are in my old lavish bedroom upstairs, he turns around and sighs, a smile coming to his face. He comes close to me – much closer than I thought he would – and he places his hands on my stomach.

"He feels strong." His breath stirs the hair around my face, and I say nothing. "How much longer?" he asks.

"Only a few months," I finally say, my voice quiet. His smile nearly breaks me, and he suddenly wraps his arms around me, his body warm. He steps back, still glancing at my belly every now and then, as if to remind himself that it is really there.

"You need something to wear," he says, eyeing my clothing with disgust and a slight trace of amusement. "All of your clothes are still where they were, though the maternity dresses will be moved in at once. We keep them here no matter what, and so I will have someone bring them to you. But I am sure you would like a nightgown and a chance to sleep. I wish I could speak to you tonight, but I must leave and make sure that everything has gone according to plan. Make sure to get some sleep. We will speak in the morning."

He leaves, and before I can think, a few women in black enter, their arms laden with clothing. They switch out the closet quickly, mumble words that mean nothing, and leave. For the first time in months, I am left completely alone. And I know that it will be spent awake.


	20. His Comfort

_His Comfort_

I am being ridiculous. I sit on the edge of the bed, nervously, watching the door. I do not know what I expect…Yes, I do. I wait for Erik – I am waiting for him to charge through the door and take me back with him. All night I wait, jumping at the smallest noise and straining to hear footsteps. When they finally do come, the morning light has spilled into the room, and it is not Erik. It is a wispy-looking woman in black who has come to help me dress.

The gown is heavy and awkward-feeling. It seems to add ten pounds to my already overly-large body, and I feel dragged down. But I say nothing. She takes me to the kitchen, where they feed me too much breakfast and tell me that since I am expecting I cannot endanger myself and take a tray up to Raoul. He finds me and takes me to a large room. Four imposing men look at me; all are wearing dark clothing and all have the same expression.

"What is this?" I ask immediately. "What's going on?"

Raoul turns to me and says quietly, "We are simply going to ask you a few questions, Christine. It won't take long."

"Why here?" I say. "Why not at the Capitol where business is taken care of?"

He responds, his voice quieter and sterner, "Because the Capitol is not safe right now. Sit down, Christine, and answer the questions."

The men take turns asking. "What happened the night of your abduction?" "Who took you? Describe them." "Where were you taken?" "Were you ever taken to the laborers' village?" "Who took care of you?" "What did they do when they found out you were expecting?" "Did they tell you why they abducted you?" "Did you ever meet the Man With Half a Face?" "Is there anything you overheard that might be relevant to the Oligarchy?"

I answer each question wearily. They pin and trap me; they put words in my mouth and corner me with each inquiry. Sometimes I lie, sometimes I do not. In the end, they have obtained exactly what they intended to obtain before they even questioned me. It is nothing poignant. I could have told them the most outlandish tales and, even if they were true, they would have still drawn their own conclusions. They mutter together quietly for a few minutes before nodding to Raoul, who tells me I am to return to my room quickly for another appointment.

"I will be up in a moment," he says, turning back to the men. I walk back to my room slowly, taking in all the small details I forgot about the mansion. The door to the dining room creaks when I open it. The vase by the kitchen has a scratch near the bottom. And I cannot remember if I ever laughed in here.

The appointment is with a doctor. I sit while he pokes and prods, and Raoul stands near the door, watching all with almost-anxious eyes. The doctor asks me personal, embarrassing questions, but I do not cry. I will not cry any more. This house, this government, this situation does not _deserve _any tears from me. I answer each question with as much dignity as I can muster, and he pronounces me ten to twelve weeks from delivery and tells me that I seem to be very healthy. He assures Raoul of my obvious health and with that will come a safe, easy delivery.

They treat me very well. I am fed constantly, and a woman is assigned to follow me around and help me when I am in pain. She knows exactly what to do to lessen or completely stop everything that bothers me. I am sitting down most of the day. It is the doctor's orders, apparently, that I do not engage in strenuous activity; however, I am taken for walks now and then. The woman never tells me her name. It doesn't seem necessary. She is always there when I need her. She always knows when I am speaking to her. There is no need to say her name. She never offers. I never ask.

But I am still waiting. I wait every night until sleep finally takes me, until nightmares come and terrorize my thoughts. What if he never comes back? What if he's been killed? What will I do if the baby is born and he never gets to see his own child? What will I be doing in one year from now? Will I still be alive in one year from now?

I try not to lose control. I have not cried yet, but there have been close moments when I wake to another day in the mansion. _Our only option now is to wait_…

One night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My hand is on my stomach. The baby is moving. I remember how excited I was when I first felt movement. But now there is no one to share this with. I sigh, ensconced in darkness. I soon realize that the darkness is because my eyes are closed, and I allow myself to doze.

Too soon, I sense someone near me, and my eyes open quickly. I nearly whisper a name that has not been on my lips in too long. But I recognize Raoul sitting in a chair that is close to my bed.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper softly.

With the calm moonlight, I can see him smile. "I feel as if I haven't seen you properly. You are very pretty, did you know that?" I say nothing. "We've never really spoken since you came back. Lately I've been very busy during the day, and now was the only time I could get away to see you." He is silent for a moment, waiting for a reply that I never give him. When the silence presses, he cannot handle it, for he sighs and drops his head a little.

"I missed you terribly when you were gone," he says quietly. "I never realized how much I enjoyed your company until I could no longer have it."

"Oh," I say.

He seems to be encouraged by the fact that I said something. With another smile, he says, "How are you feeling?"

"Well enough."

Quietly, he reaches out and takes some of my curls between his fingers, gently running them through his hand. I watch his face. He seems focused on his task, his eyes watching my hair. After a few minutes, his gaze travels down to my protruding stomach. His hand hovers over it momentarily, and he asks, "May I?"

I nod slowly. His hand is heavy and warm. Gently, I place my hand over his and move it to where he can feel the most movement. After a few moments, the baby kicks, and Raoul's expression lights up in a most moving way. He laughs suddenly and smiles at me. I cannot help but smile back, somehow delighted that he finds something as simple as this exciting. It is a while until he leaves. We speak very softly about simple, unimportant things. The Oligarchy is never mentioned, nor is my absence. I find myself enjoying his affable conversation in a most pure, innocent way, and I am willing to speak as long as he wishes. Finally, he yawns and stands.

"Goodnight, Christine," he says, touching my cheek briefly. "Sleep well."

He comes again and again. He never offers any explanation. I suppose I do not mind. It is the one time during the day when I can speak to someone without being reserved or forced. I smile without realizing it and come to look forward to the moments when he enters my room.

But I miss Erik fiercely. I want him to come back. I want it more than anything I've ever wanted before. Every moment of the day is spent in anticipation for when he will come back and take me. Doubts gnaw at me viciously, and one night I hesitantly ask,

"Raoul…was everyone killed the night you found me?"

He looks at me sharply. We have never mentioned anything like this, and I think he appreciates that just as much as I do. However, I do not retract my question and wait.

After clearing his throat slightly, he says, "Most. They captured a few."

I sigh – with or without relief, I cannot tell. Erik and Taurin might have been captured…but they might have been killed. I make up my mind to ask Raoul in a few nights about Erik. Perhaps if I get him in a very pleasant mood, he would not mind so much…

The thought is unnecessary the next morning, however. I wake suddenly, as if someone is there. But the room is empty, save the pale sunlight that creeps in. It is white with the fresh morning air outside, and I lie still, enjoying the warmth of the bed.

Dull, distant voices reach me, along with the sounds of metal, and I sit up, curious. They start, then stop again. I slide out of the bed and walk to the window, peering down into the courtyard below me. My heart stops beating, my breath catches in my throat, and I throw on two dressing gowns and slip on the first pair of shoes I see. This is the closest I have come to crying, and I hurry through the house, silent with the morning. Cold air hits me as I pull the huge front door open, and I go to what I must.

Taurin is there, along with five others, all chained together at the wrists and feet. They look utterly woebegone and stand silently next to each other. A horse-drawn cart stands next to them, the horse also standing still. I assume that their guard has left for only a few minutes, and so I hurry. Taurin sees me and his entire expression changes. With a cry, I throw my arms around him.

"Christine!" he says, his voice hoarse. "What are you doing here?"

He leans down obligingly to allow me to kiss his forehead. The other men are all familiar, and I smile at them. They manage grim half-smiles.

"What's going on?" I demand. "Why are you here? Where's Erik?"

Taurin looks around the courtyard, saying, "Erik should be fine, Christine. We were all taken, but he disappeared two nights ago." He sees my expression and amends quickly, "It was not planned. They were furious when they found out he had disappeared from his separate holding cell. You need to leave, Christine."

"What are they doing? Are they moving you somewhere else?" I have a grip on his left arm, and I do not let go.

"No, Christine, it's…" He is quiet for a moment and breathes deeply. "We are to be executed this morning for a public display of power." He shares grim, sad smiles with the other men, who are all watching us.

My stomach disappears. "Then…why are you standing here? Go! No one is watching. Run – escape!"

He shakes his head slowly. "No, Christine – no. There is no use. There are guards at the outer gates." His tone of voice changes to light and amused. "I'm only surprised they kept us alive this long. Didn't they realize that they wouldn't get anything out of us?"

The men laugh with him, but I cannot understand why.

"What do you mean?"

"They tried to torture us for information, but there was nothing to give." Taurin nods at his right arm. "They pulled my arm out of place. It aches terribly." I notice then that he is holding it oddly. His bullet wound must have opened again, too, because there is a dull red stain on his shirt near the injury.

I do not understand. Why aren't they running? Why do they just stand there? Why are they smiling? I shake Taurin angrily, and he yelps with pain. "Stop, Christine, that hurts my arm!"

"What are you saying?" I say, my voice hysterical. "Get out! Take the horse and – "

"Oh, Christine, you're in trouble," says Taurin, looking over my shoulder. "Someone has noticed you are here."

I turn to see two horses coming toward us. Ignoring them, I look back at Taurin. "Taurin, where is Erik?" He does not look at me. I take his jaw in my hand and force his face back to mine. "Taurin, _where is Erik_? I know you know! I know he told you!"

Taurin smiles. "He adores you; did you know that, Christine? More than anything else, he wants you to be happy. I want you to be happy, too. Thank you for everything, Christine."

The horses have stopped behind us, and I hear Raoul's voice snap, "Christine, what are you doing outside?" Raoul is dressed in his military best, and his horse is startlingly huge and white. He dismounts swiftly and takes my arm, roughly pulling me away from Taurin.

"Get them into the cart!" Raoul commands, his voice harsh and cold. The other man on the horse does not need to do anything. The six chained men walk to it obediently. Raoul then looks at me and asks quietly, "What are you doing out here?"

"Where are you taking those men?" I ask.

"They are the terrorists that held you captive for months, Christine. They are going to be executed. Christine, what's wrong?"

I begin to cry at last, and I clutch Raoul's stiff red jacket. "Please, don't…" I sob. "Please, Raoul, do not kill them! I've never asked you for anything important, but please for once grant me something that matters!"

Other men dressed in military garb have begun to file into the courtyard, and they watch us with curiosity. Raoul notices them, too, and leans closer to me, his voice holding a quiet intensity.

"Why do you want their lives to be spared? They imprisoned you. They are traitors to you and everything you are." He looks at them quickly before looking back at me.

"He – " I point to Taurin. "He is my brother. Please, Raoul, please…spare their lives. I swear I will do anything you ask. Use your power to give me this, and I will never ask you for anything again."

Raoul stares at me, his expression quite blank. A few silent moments pass. The entire courtyard is filled with tension. A man finally walks up to us and asks, "Is something wrong, sir?"

A moment passes. Raoul looks from me to the man several times, and he finally steps away from me.

"Nothing," he says, his voice clipped. "Please have my wife taken back to her bedroom. She is unwell."

He goes back to his horse and mounts it. I begin to scream. Two men begin to take me back to the mansion. Everyone in the courtyard ignores my shrieks. They are all silent and look at the cart. The tears stream down my cheeks, and I look at Taurin. He smiles at me and calls out softly, "Do not be afraid, Christine."

They push me into the closest room and lock it. I pound on the door and scream still. A few minutes later, two women enter the room. They do nothing but watch me. I know they are there to make sure I do not harm the baby – unintentionally or intentionally. I am sitting in a nearby chair and sobbing. I can imagine Taurin and the rest of the men lined up in front of a wall, a crowd of eager onlookers watching my brother with unjust hatred and disgust. And I can imagine Raoul giving the orders – I can hear the firing of the pistols – I can see the bodies crumpling…And I can't stand to feel it anymore.

"They killed him, Erik," I whisper to myself. The women do not seem to particularly care what I do, as long as I keep the baby safe. "They killed him, and it was my fault. I should have been faster. I could have been stronger. He was your friend, and he was my brother. Where are you?"

Raoul does not come for three nights. I know he is avoiding me, attempting to give time to me to allow my anger to cool. Oddly enough, I am not angry. I feel…empty. When he enters my room on the fourth night, I am staring out of the window. I have left the curtains open. The stars are very bright tonight, and they twinkle at me. I do not look at him as he walks over to the bed and sits down by me – not on the chair. Tonight he sits down on the bed. The mattress leans with his weight. I think of Erik and our first night together. With hesitation, he touches my shoulder and says softly, "Christine?"

I cannot seem to gather the effort to respond to him. I wish he would simply leave me alone. I do not want to think right now, or to feel, or to know. I simply want to stare at those shining stars until I fall asleep.

"They have told me you haven't been eating very well lately. Are you sick?"

When my silence continues, he moves his hand to mine and presses it gently. "Your hand is very cold," he says. "Are you warm enough in this room?"

The baby moves, and I spend another few moments wondering about in what kind of world my child will grow up. Quite suddenly, I feel Raoul move beside me, and I finally turn to look at him. His face is buried in his hands. He releases a shuddering sigh.

"Christine, please," he whispers, his voice muffled by his hands. "Please, don't do this to me…I could not bear it."

I watch for only a moment before sitting up, inelegant and awkward as I shift to be comfortable with my stomach. Hesitantly, I rest my head on his shoulder. Raoul wraps his arms around me quickly and buries his face in my neck. I know he is crying. His body shakes with sobs, and I can feel the tears. And for this night, I want to be his comfort, even though he has destroyed mine.


	21. Purpose

_Purpose_

One night, I wake with a soft cry of pain.

I know the baby is coming.

For the past few weeks, I've felt strange and uncomfortable pains, and I have wondered if I was, perhaps, going into labor; however, they were all false alarms. Tonight, though, I know what the baby is telling me.

Once someone is informed, my room is full of people. They move me to a different room. The doctor is there, and women stream in and out. The pain increases over time. I suddenly become very cold and ill, and I snap angrily at anyone who speaks too loudly. It lasts much too long, and then the pain doubles. I did not know anyone could live with such pain. Surely it would kill a normal human…but I lie down and breathe through it. The doctor is saying something to me. Someone is touching my head… I cannot hear or feel anything except the sound of my own heartbeat the waves of pain that wrack my entire body.

I drift in my subconscious mind. Vaguely, I hear voices, now excited and loud, but a roaring overpowers it all. Pain is reaching through every limb, every bone, every joint, and I cannot do anything but wait for it to pass. Someone is still touching my forehead…wait, maybe no one is…I can hear Erik's voice, but perhaps it's only in my head. I think I am screaming, but I cannot seem to decide if it is me or if I am simply hearing other things. Maybe I am dying…yet death should not be as painful as this, and so I welcome it, allowing myself to absorb the pain and let my body do what it must to kill me.

Minutes – hours – centuries – later, the pain lessens, and I feel an empty aching all over. I seem to be able to breathe now, and I finally have the courage to open my eyes. The baby – _my _baby – is screaming, and the most important thing I must do at this moment is to comfort it. Weakly, I outstretch my arms, a desperate sign of longing.

None pay attention. They speak very fast to each other, huddled around in a tight circle, and, suddenly, they all rush out of the room. Two women remain. One cleans up the bloodied sheets, towels, and other messes, and another begins to wipe off my forehead idly, her eyes unfocused on the task. The rush of the moment is over. I am left here, bloody and hurt, without the child I delivered. My breathing becomes fast and irregular, and I wail, burying my face into my hands.

"What is it, madam?" asks the woman next to me. "I'm sure you are still hurting. Do not worry. The doctor will be back to check up on you in a few minutes."

"I don't care!" I shriek. "Give me my baby!" I scream nonstop, sobbing, the longing in my very being unable to be satisfied. I cry myself into further exhaustion, unable to do anything but lie pathetically and hiccough out a sob every few minutes. My hand rests on my stomach, which is now so small that I can hardly believe that it is mine. Not for the first time, I wonder what my child looks like. Perhaps like Erik, which is why they rushed the baby out of the room. There is a side of me that feels as if I would not care at all if my baby looked like Erik…in fact, I would _welcome _it. This way, all would know who the child's father is. But no matter what, I know I will always see my baby as nothing but perfect. A thought strikes me. How could I be so selfish? What would their reaction be? Would they kill me? Would they kill my child? My sweat suddenly turns cold, and my eyes scan the room frantically, looking for someone who will help me. There is no one except the two women, who finish their chores. One leaves, but one remains in the room, assigned to watch me until the doctor returns. He does so in seeming decades, walking quickly toward me. I do not have the strength to do anything but look at him and blink, but he does not care. He puts a hand on my forehead, feels my heartbeat, and makes sure that I have stopped bleeding. The only thing he says is,

"A very smooth delivery." And he leaves.

Not long after this, Raoul enters, looking happier than I have ever seen him. He rushes to my side.

"Oh, Christine, he's wonderful! You're wonderful." Awkwardly, he lifts me up into a hug, and I rest on his shoulders. "How do you feel? What am I saying? I'm sure you feel terrible. You look fine, and I'm sure you'll feel fine soon, too." He waits for me to say something, but, when I don't, he asks, "Christine? Is something wrong?"

I say quietly, "Let me see my baby. I haven't even seen my own child yet!"

Immediately he pulls away. "Very well, Christine," he says gently. "Let me get him for you."

As he fulfills his promise, I manage to push myself up into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the pillows and headboards. A wracking pain is still throbbing from my stomach to the middle of my thighs, and I inhale sharply as I move my legs slightly.

The door opens, and Raoul enters, followed by the doctor. Raoul is carrying a small bundle, which he smiles at before he comes to me. I see my baby for the first time, and I begin to cry again, but I am smiling this time. He is placed in my arms, a soft little fussy red bundle with dark hair, and I touch him, his cheeks, nose, tiny fingers, his closed eyes. When I kiss his forehead, his eyes open, and he looks right at me. My breath disappears for a moment. No words describe what I feel as I stare back. I think he knows that I am his mother.

I laugh – almost giggle – as I whisper, "He's perfect." He whimpers in my arms when he hears me.

"We are consulting on names," Raoul says, the pride in his voice unable to leave. "I will let you know soon."

"Oh," I say shortly, finally looking up for a brief moment. "I was hoping that I – "

"We should take him now," says the doctor. "It is not good to strain the mother and the child."

My baby is lifted from my arms. He starts to cry. "Wait!" I say frantically. "Where are you taking him?"

"You both need rest," says the doctor. Both he and Raoul leave, and I stare at the door. A woman remains sitting beside me. I look over and see she is knitting. It is an unbelievably tiny blue smock. I know it is for my baby. Anger shoots through me.

"Give me that," I say, my voice stronger than I feel. She looks at me, surprised.

"Pardon, madam?"

"Give that to me! You have no right to _touch _my baby. He is not yours! Stop knitting that!"

Slowly, she stands and leaves the room. A few minutes later, she returns, looking much calmer. She sits down and continues to knit. Without success, I repeat my commands again.

"The doctor wishes you to settle down and go to sleep," she finally says, giving me an impatient look. I know I won't be granted anything tonight.

----

It takes several days for me to be on my feet once again, and even after that I still feel sore all over. It is strange to look down and see a small stomach. I miss the baby inside of me. It does not help that I have not seen him since delivery. I have not seen anyone except the woman who assists me when I need it, and she is not much for company.

When I feel much better, one evening I dine with Raoul. He smiles at me constantly. When our plates are set before us, I watch the retreating back of the man who set them there.

"Raoul," I say suddenly.

He looks at me, surprised, but replies, "Yes, Christine?"

"Why are we served constantly?"

There is a silence, and he looks slightly uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"

"We are capable of serving ourselves. We have no real need to be waited on hand and foot. Why are these men and women here?"

Raoul clears his throat. "Yes, we are capable of serving ourselves, Christine, but we have no time. I am busy most of the day – you know that. Besides, we give these people a place to live. They do not have to worry about where their next meal will come from or where they will sleep each night."

"They could have lives of their own," I say, my voice as calm as his. I can feel tension rising, but I do not stop. "These people could serve themselves instead of us if they were given the chance. And you know I have all the time in the world to serve myself. Why are these people condemned to remain here with no chance to have a life of their own?"

"They are not 'condemned,'" Raoul says stiffly, setting his utensil down with forced calm. "It is their place, their life's purpose, to do what the Oligarchy asks of them. We do what we do because the Oligarchy needs us to do it."

"The Oligarchy is nothing but five men who profit from the work of others."

My statement is too bold. Raoul rises quickly, his voice becoming louder and louder, "The Oligarchy is an ideal, Christine! It is the epitome of a great civilization, and we are nothing but those who try to carry out this idea. This is what we have been taught since the time we could speak! Do not forget it. We – the leaders – cannot afford to waste our time planting vegetables, and so we ask those who are capable to do it for us. In exchange, we give them safety and freedom! How dare you be so short-sighted and judgmental! It is not your place!"

I stare at him, and somehow I cannot feel scared. I am too angry with all that has been done to me. Raoul does not sit down. He breathes deeply and then says, "You are dismissed for the evening."

I do not sleep much anymore. My mind dwells on Erik and Taurin and Clara and my baby…all those who have been taken from me by this "great civilization." I could dwell on these losses, which I have done in the past, but it has produced nothing but tears. And if I could get just one of those back, I think I would do anything required of me.

"Raoul?" I say one afternoon. He has requested that I play the piano, and I have played quite a long time, hoping to ease him into a pleasant mood.

"Yes?" he says, staring out of the window. The sunlight casts shadows on his face. He is too thin, almost gaunt. For a moment, I forget what I was going to ask him and instead say, "Do you feel all right?"

He turns to look at me. "Yes, I'm quite fine, Christine."

"You are too thin."

"Oh," he says. "I have found that my appetite has disappeared." He smiles at me, somehow still as handsome and charming as all those months ago. It does not seem at all fair that he is everything that I know I hate, and yet I cannot bring myself to hate him.

"Raoul," I say, "I want to know where my baby is."

He raises his eyebrows and says slowly, "The doctor advises that he should be kept…away from most people to keep him healthy."

"He is _my _baby!" I say angrily. "Why can't I be allowed to be near him? How many children have died because they have been close to their mothers?"

Raoul sighs and stands. "Maybe you should be left alone for a while, Christine. I do not like it when you are so angry." And he leaves. For another day I am left alone, but the next night as I lie in bed, I know that I cannot live with myself when I am like this. I slip out of the bed and into the hallway, shivering slightly with the cold. I wander through the halls, stopping every now and then to check in a door.

It takes me twenty minutes to locate the right room. I step inside as quietly as I can, taking it in. There is a small bed in the corner, on which a white-haired woman sleeps. I know she is there to care for him. The bassinet sits near the bed, and I go toward it, hardly daring to breathe, my eyes on the bed in case she moves. I reach the bassinet and look inside. For a few moments, I can do nothing but stare at my baby. He is still incredibly tiny. Slowly and hesitatingly, I lean down and pick him up. He grunts softly, and his tiny mouth opens slightly, revealing little pink gums. I cannot restrain the happiness that fills my entire being. It is more than I have ever felt before, and I hold my baby close. For a few minutes, I simply watch him, feel him breathe and cherish the weight in my arms. He stirs slightly and begins to whimper.

"Hush," I whisper softly, throwing a hesitant glance to the bed. But he starts to cry, and I do nothing but stand and watch, unsure of how to comfort him. The woman wakes slowly and sees me. She gives an indignant shriek.

"What are you doing in here?" she snaps, coming over. "Go back to your bedroom!"

I look back to my son. He is still crying. I cannot stand the idea that I am his mother and I do not know what to do for him. The woman takes him away and tells me to go back to my room once again. There is no worse feeling. I sit in my room, exhausted and spent, and stare out of the window, thinking about my soft little baby and the idea that I don't deserve to have him. Shouldn't there be a natural motherly instinct I possess that would enable me to know what to do? I had never before seen a child that small, much less been taught to care for one.

"I've been told you took a stroll last night," says Raoul. He stands next to me, hands clasped behind his back, and waits for an answer. The parlor is lit strongly by the afternoon sun, and it shines hot and bright. I stare at the wall. Somehow, I cannot bring myself to answer him. He sighs and sits down next to me. There is a very long silence. He stands quickly and leaves the room, muttering, "I have things to do."

I go back to see my baby again. This time, I do not pick him up. I kneel by the bassinet and watch him. Very gently, I place two fingers on his chest and feel it rise and fall. I am not caught for several nights. Before entering the room, I listen carefully to make sure that he is asleep, and I then enter. I leave when I see that he is starting to wake, although it pains me to do so. I wish to see his eyes open and look at me once again.

One evening, as I dress for bed, my door opens. I turn to see Raoul entering, and instantly I demand, "What are you doing here?"

He glances at me but does not answer. As he closes the door and walks toward me, I watch him silently, warily, knowing exactly why he is here but refusing to acquiesce. Slowly, he takes my elbow and leads me to the bed. I still look at him, but he seems determined not to meet my gaze. After setting me on the bed, he quickly extinguishes the candles and returns. His hands are trembling slightly. They take the front lacings of my dress, and he slowly begins to untie them. I watch his face expressionlessly. He suddenly rips his hands away and snarls,

"Stop _looking _at me like that!"

There is a moment of heavy silence, and he says inelegantly, "I – you know I hate this as much as you do…but they keep _pushing _me, and…" He gives a shuddering gasp, closing his eyes as he does so. "We'll just get this over with quickly, all right?" He is speaking more to himself than to me. But as he continues to untie the laces, he breaks and begins to cry, turning away from me. His back shakes with sobs. Slowly, I sit up and place a hand on his shoulder, softly murmuring,

"What is it? Raoul?"

His words are broken, forced, and he does not look at me until he is finished. "I feel as if – everything – everything I've been taught – is falling apart in my hands. Control is slipping away from me. I don't know what to do anymore – I don't know how to make – you happy…"

For the second time I wrap my arms around him as he cries. We are both lost, searching for an unattainable happiness that we know we will not find tonight.


	22. A Choice

_A Choice_

I know exactly why he continues to come at night. The other members of the Oligarchy, although they accept my baby as his, still wish for further proof that Raoul himself can provide another child. And so Raoul comes, collapsing under the pressure. He has taken to sleeping beside me, falling into a slumber soon after he is finished with what he comes to originally do. I understand why: he does not want to be alone. I suppose, for the most part, I do not mind. He wakes me, sometimes, shooting up from the bed, sweating and gasping in air. I ask him what is wrong.

"A silly nightmare," he says, running a hand through his hair. He then lays back down beside me, sighing and closing his eyes. In the middle of the night, when he is in deep slumber, I climb away from the bed and find my baby. I am drawn to him no matter what anyone says. I have been caught several more times, but it does not stop me. Nothing, save death, can stop me from smelling my little boy and seeing him breathe and, on some precious occasions, watching him open his eyes.

I slip back into my room, and Raoul is there, awake, sitting up and watching me. Without comment, I take off my dressing gown and sit on the bed. After a moment, I pull my hair back and braid it quickly. I can still feel Raoul's eyes watching me.

"You know I think it's wrong for you not to be able to see him," he finally says, a pleading note in his voice. "But I must follow the requests of the doctor."

"You don't have to," I say quietly, finishing my braid and pulling the sheets over me. "You are over him."

We are silent for a moment. I think he is asleep, but he says softly,

"This is the way things have been for decades."

I sigh heavily, keeping my eyes closed. "I know, Raoul. But things are changing, and you know this." He does not respond, and I ask quietly, a thrill of nerves running through me, "What is his name?"

There is a silence, and then, "Elijah."

Elijah. I can now put a name to my little boy. I get out of bed to see him one night, excited to whisper his name into his ear and hear him gurgle adorably in response. Quietly, so as not to wake Raoul, I pull on an awaiting dressing gown and pad over to the door. With a glance back to the bed, I tug at the handle. It does not move. I yank on it a few more times, almost desperately.

"I'm sorry, Christine."

I turn around quickly to see Raoul sitting up and looking at me. "This is the only way I could think of."

Without hesitation, I march over, my dressing gown snapping with the speed, and I slap him, hard, across the cheek.

"You coward!" I hiss. "How could you take me away from my child? For once, why can't _you _give orders?"

He stands with amazing speed and grabs my arms, anger flashing in his normally-calm dark eyes. "You – selfish brat! Do you think I'm doing this to hurt you? _They want to kill you, Christine_! And I'm using all my power to save you!"

We stare at each other, our breathing fast and hard, though for different reasons. My breath disappears, and my heart pounds five times as loudly as it normally does.

"Why?" I say quietly.

He laughs, bitterly. "You know why, Christine. And yet you insist on pushing the line. Just – " He sighs heavily and puts his hands on my shoulders, looking straight at me. "Why can you not simply do as you're told?"

I continue to stare for a moment, and I then pull myself away from him and go to the bed. Another sigh escapes him, and he follows suit. I do not think that either of us will be sleeping for a while.

----

Raoul tells me of what he calls "a solution." I am able to see Elijah once a day, for perhaps one hour or so under surveillance. Though I grind my teeth and glower, I accept. Seeing my baby for that much longer is enough incentive for me.

He is really very beautiful. His eyes are big, and I know that they change colors. Alarmed, I tell the nurse about this, but she simply smiles and says that they will for a while, but eventually he will settle on brown. Today they are a piercing blue. He knows when I am talking to him; sometimes he will talk back, gurgling and cooing at me. I am told he is a very quiet, very well-behaved baby, and that makes me proud. As I look at him, my heart suddenly aches. I wish Erik could be there and see his beautiful little son, perfect in every sense.

I cannot see Elijah any more during the night. The door has been kept locked, and Raoul will not listen to my promises to stay inside the room.

"I know you will not keep them," he says, almost smiling a bit. "Or else why would you ask that I unlock the door?"

Sometimes I look at Raoul while he is sleeping and think of all the great things he could have done. He is broken now, defeated and molded into what he needs to be. I have tried speaking to him about education and schools for the laborers, but he merely grunted and said,

"Not everyone needs to be educated; not everyone wants to be educated; not everyone can be educated. No – things are best kept as they are, Christine." He looks at me and says, "I have always liked you in that blue gown. It makes your eyes seem even bluer."

And so I drop the subject. I spend a great deal of time thinking and worrying. What if Erik never comes? Perhaps there really _were _no feelings between us; my affection is unrequited. Maybe he still sees me as a means to an end, and that, now that I am back, he will simply find a new way to, as he put it, "dig at the root."

Raoul is now frustrated by the fact that I haven't conceived again. He tries, almost desperate in his attempts, and it always leaves me uncomfortable and irritated.

"Raoul," I finally say one night, pushing him away as he nears the bed, "there hasn't been enough time. I am still having pains from the previous delivery. Give me time and stop worrying."

He sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead and nodding. "You're right – I'm simply…simply…Well, it's not simple any more, is it?" He smiles facetiously.

I know he is right: nothing is really simple any more. I fall asleep, but, when I wake, things turn much more complicated.

The bed is warm and comfortable, and I have a hard time pulling myself awake. There is movement beside me, and so I know it must be morning. Wearily, I open my eyes. It is not light yet, but Raoul is sitting up, looking at the door, and as my eyes adjust, I can see he is pointing a pistol…

I sit up quickly, my eyes traveling to the door. Something of a whimper escapes as I see Erik standing by the closed door, his hands up and fingers spread.

"Quiet, Christine," Raoul snaps. His breathing is fast, and his eyes are trained on Erik. Erik does not look at me; his eyes are locked on Raoul's, and I do not see any fear in them. In fact, I see nothing at all – just blank and empty. Erik's mask shines dully in the moonlight.

"Are you here to kill me?" Raoul asks.

"That was my original plan," Erik responds, his voice dead, but it is still wonderful to hear it. I want him to speak again. Raoul must sense my restlessness, for he commands coldly, "Be still."

He turns his attention back to Erik. "Your 'original' plan? Why has it changed?"

"You were not in your room; I thought you might have been at the Capitol. I had no idea that you would be in the same bed as your wife."

Raoul takes this last remark as an insult and I can sense him flush slightly. He postulates, "Why did you come here, then? Did you come here to rape my wife once again? I know you did when she was with you, no matter what you told her to say."

"I never told her to say anything," Erik says calmly.

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore." Raoul seems to become more frenzied. "You are under my mercy now. We have searched for a very long time for you, and now here you are, right before me."

"Yes," Erik agrees. "You will shoot me and then all of your problems will disappear." For the first time, I hear emotion in Erik's voice: he is mocking Raoul. The latter, however, does not want to rise to the bait.

"Why are you here?" he asks harshly. His pistol is still straight and steady, pointing right at Erik. "Why have you come?"

"Well, we never wished for you to find out, but the other members of the Oligarchy have actually already been killed tonight. I took the _laborious_ task of coming to kill you myself, since you have killed so many people that actually meant something."

"Erik, he never – " I begin, but Raoul stops me.

"Shut up, Christine!" he says loudly. "Shut up!"

I look at Erik, but he is not looking at me. His gaze is fixed on Raoul.

"I will give you a choice," Erik says. "Give me Christine, and we will leave and you will never hear from us again. You may grow old in peace or die however you wish."

Raoul laughs bitterly, without humor. "You are no position to be making offers."

"Do you really think that killing me will stop this? More will come – people are noticing, things are changing. I can stop this for your lifetime. You only need give me Christine."

"Why?" asks Raoul suspiciously, throwing a glance at me. "What importance is she to you? Is it the child? Even if he is yours, he is mine."

"I know," says Erik, perhaps too hastily. "I only want Christine."

I choke slightly; as much as I wished that Raoul would accept this offer, I am not sure anymore. I need my baby.

"_Why_?" Raoul says again.

"Because…" Erik pauses slightly, and for the first time he looks at me. "Because I love her."

My entire being is lightweight; I stare at him, disbelieving. Erik loves me, and I love Erik. So shouldn't everything fall into place?

"And?" snaps Raoul angrily. "So do I!"

There is a moment of silence, and Raoul finally leans over to me. "Do you see the gun he has in his belt? Go get it for me." When I look at him, he says, "Don't worry, Christine. He won't shoot you."

Slowly, I slide out of the bed, casting a hesitant look at Raoul before walking to Erik. He looks at me while I push back his heavy coat to reveal to handle of a pistol. His hands are still in the air.

"Did you mean that?" I breathe, pulling out the gun. It is much heavier than I expect.

Another moment of silence. "Yes."

I manage to smile. "I love you, too."

"Give me the gun, Christine." Raoul has stepped off the bed, too, standing erect and looking taller than I remember. He takes the pistol from me and looks back at Erik. "Now, stand over there and die proudly."

Erik does so obediently, and I cry out softly as I watch him walk to the designated spot. Without much thought, only knowing that I must do it, I walk to him and stand in front, facing Raoul.

"Move," he demands. "Get out of the way, Christine!"

Erik's fingers come to touch my arm and push me aside, and a thrill runs through my entire frame as he touches me.

"Get your hands off of her!" Raoul suddenly shrieks, shaking the pistol at him. "Don't you dare touch her!" He comes over to pull me aside, but I push him away defiantly.

"If you kill him, I will kill myself," I say, my cheeks burning and my heart racing. Erik shifts behind me; I feel his chest inches from my back, and I long to sink into him. Raoul stares, looking bewildered and lost.

"No, Christine, that is not what I want," Erik says, and he pushes me once again. "Go away – do as I say, Christine."

"I have made my choice!" I scream at both of them, hugging myself. "I will make my own choices now, and I will stand by them! _You cannot tell me what to do_! I will stand here and watch you die, and then I will take that gun and shoot myself!"

"That is – that is what you want?" Raoul finally speaks, his voice timid and pleading. I nod to him, watching his dark eyes deaden. There is a moment of silence, and he finally chokes out, "Very well." He cocks the pistol. I feel like nothing more than a hollow shell, and I close my eyes, waiting for the _crack_ of the gun and the sound of a body falling beside me. I feel a tear fall onto my neck. I know I am afraid to die, but I will not let that stop me. Fear has ruled my life for too long, and I will not succumb to it anymore. I will conquer my enemies and be triumphant at last. The control I never had will be mine. I shall control my own fate, my own destiny, and I shall make my own choice – even if it is the last one I make.

There is a moment of dragging silence, and then –

_CRACK!_

The sound of the gun, and a body on the floor, and the sound of my slight sob. Before I find the strength to open my eyes, a hand touches my shoulder. The hand is cold and bony, and a soft voice says,

"Christine, you must open your eyes."

The sight that comes to me is one I had never before expected. I kneel by Raoul, and he looks at me, his wasted handsome face struggling with the life that is left in him. His breath comes in short, panicked bursts, and his fingers are closed over a wound on his chest. Dark red blood trickles between the fingers. Holding back a tearless cry, I put my hand on his forehead.

"Raoul," I say, quietly and sadly.

I smile weakly at him. One blood-stained hand comes up to his throat, and he claws a chain from around his neck. On it is a small, silver key. I take it, and he tries to speak. "Chri – Christi – in the – the drawer…" He gasps, shuddering and desperate, and I rise quickly, unlock it, and look in the small drawer that resides in the bedside table. I shuffle through the meaningless contents until I find a folded piece of paper, worn and old-looking.

When I return to Raoul's side, I find him smiling at me, his lips curled up ever so slightly. He tries to say something else, but a struggle for breath cuts him off, and he looks at the paper in my hands. With a soft sigh, he is still, and his hands fall limply to his sides, the blood bright red on his chest. Softly, I press my lips to his forehead, trembling, and shut his eyes. A moment passes, and I stand finally. Erik's chest is still as solid as I remember, and I find refuge in it for a few dear minutes.


	23. The Most Important

_The Most Important_

The next days pass in a blur. They are full of sounds and tears and moving and feelings. Colors and shapes rush past my eyes, indistinguishable and unfamiliar. I do remember some things, however. Some things will remain in my memory, as clear as ever.

I remember watching Erik cry after he read what was on the paper – I had never seen him cry before. He told me that the paper was basically a transfer of power and rights from Raoul to Erik. I never asked anything more about it; it didn't seem right.

I remember the quiet moonlight in the room when I took Erik to see his child for the first time. Erik's features are sharp, outlined by the light, and I smile as I pick up Elijah carefully before handing him to Erik. With much awkwardness and hesitancy, Erik holds his son and watches him. A few moments later, Elijah opens his eyes and finds Erik. And, for the first time, Elijah smiles.

I also remember the moment that I met Claude. He speaks to me cordially for a few minutes, but he then returned to speaking with Erik. A thought crosses my mind that Claude does not like me at all.

When Erik learns of the deaths of Taurin and Nadir Khan, he hardly speaks for days; every movement and decision is stiff and forced. I cry when we finally talk about it, but his expression hardly changes. His mourning is deep and is not to be understood by anyone except himself.

And I remember one evening, very late, I lay on a couch, exhausted. Erik is writing something – I learn later that it is notes for a speaker – and I watch him lazily, admiring the graceful arch of his back and the sound of his steady writing.

"Erik," I suddenly ask. "Are we still married?"

He gives something similar to a short laugh. "Only if you wish to be." But there is a sarcastic tone to his voice.

I think of our past encounters, of the whispered words and confessions, and I am slightly hurt. "Of course I do," I say shortly.

The sound of his writing ceases, and he turns to look at me, bewilderment on his face. "You – you still wish to be wed?"

"Yes," I respond, frowning. "Did you not hear me tell you that I love you?"

There is a pause. "I – I did not believe that you meant it."

Another pause follows this. "Did you not mean what you said to me?" I ask, slightly terrified of his answer. Perhaps it was all a show, a rouse to finally achieve what he had been working for for so long. Chills cross my stomach.

"Yes, I did. It is just strange to think that you would still willingly be married to me."

"After all that has happened to us? Erik – we have a child now, and even if we did not, I would still want to be with you."

----

The act of Erik's assuming command came by easier than I would have ever thought. He tells me it is all because of Raoul's letter, and that without it he might still be fighting. After the first few hazy days, things settle into place. Erik completely reforms the government, destroying the "worthless, self-righteous" laws and writing up new ones that he hopes will change things for the better. The Oligarchy is formed, with Erik taking charge with unspoken agreement from the others.

The mansion is changed from its very foundations. All the men and women in black are released from their positions, and Erik generously offers them a place to stay until they find somewhere else. All the extra, unneeded clothes, bedding, and other odds and ends are distributed among the laborers, who are still wary of the new government.

"They have been promised so much for so long," says Erik one evening, looking haggard and morose. "I do not think they believe that we will be any different. A new mattress and pot will not change their lives."

But he has reduced their quota dramatically. "It is only temporary," he has said. "Those living in the city will not be able to provide for themselves for a few years, so we must give them some support. Until they learn that things are not going to be handed to them, we must give them what we can." He says that in three years the laborers should not have to turn in any quota at all. In five years, there will be no more "laborers."

A member of Erik's new Oligarchy has been visiting them regularly and making speeches, educating most of them when they are willing to listen.

The new school is actually the mansion itself. Erik has sought out the best man in each field and given them charge of teaching. The young children in the city are now required to go to the school. The laborers' children come when they are able, but, as Erik says, in five years they will come as often as the other children. Once a week, Erik goes and teaches music and a bit of religion.

Everyone is still cautious about the new rules and principles. The parents are reluctant to allow their children to go to the school, but it is now a law. Erik is displeased by his current results.

"Don't worry so much," I tell Erik one evening. Elijah sits on my lap, cooing happily. "You expect too much too soon. Follow your own advice: wait a few years."

Erik comes to my bed late one evening, without any warning at all. There is not much discussion about it – it seems to be the natural thing, and, afterwards, I feel closer to him than I have ever felt before. I still do not know everything about him; I learn every day, but I am willing to do that for the rest of my life.

The few years fall away quickly. Erik becomes thinner, more worked, but, incredibly, happier. Perhaps things are not working as smoothly as he had originally hoped, but those things are coming closer and closer to his goal. The school now offers classes in the evenings for adults; many laborers come, along with much of the city's adults. The Oligarchy manages to open a small hospital, with one of Erik's own men in charge – Aidan, I believe his name is.

And the young adults who have attended the school now work under an adult of a profession in hopes of training new workers. The new systems will not settle in for another few years, but, until then, I know I am content to wait.

----

_Seventeen Years Later_

I smile as I turn at the noise. A tall, disheveled young man hurries into the kitchen, carrying a stack of books and pulling at his necktie. He sets his books on the table and begins to scour the cupboard.

"What are you doing, Elijah?" I finally ask, leaning against the countertop. He pauses and turns toward me, his hazel eyes almost frantic.

"Oh – good morning, Mother. I cannot find my final mathematics paper. I spent over two hours working on that problem, and I can't think to look anywhere else." He resumes his searching. With another smile, I go to the table, pick up the flimsy little brown book, and pull out a sheet of paper.

"Elijah," I say, holding it out to him. He turns, sees the paper, and seizes it.

"Where did you find it?" he asks ecstatically.

"Perhaps if you didn't leave your school work lying around the house for me to pick up, you would know where it is. Now sit down – your breakfast is cold, and you must be straightened out before you go."

He takes his plate and sits at the table, looking over his problem while I straighten his necktie, flatten his hair, and smooth the pleats on his shirt and jacket. He suddenly says,

"Simon Lunceford said that I would pass today only because of Father. He told me that I wouldn't even have to show up, and I would still pass with good marks."

Having heard this for nearly ten years, I simply say, my voice soft, "You know very well your father would not intervene with your schoolwork – even if you received bad marks. Your marks are what you have earned, and not because your father is who he is, but because you have worked hard for them."

He nods absentmindedly. I think he simply needs a reassurance of this every now and again; he believes me, but he still must hear it.

"Is – is Father going to be there this afternoon?" There is some hesitation in his voice, though he tries to act nonchalant.

I pause momentarily, leaving my hand to rest on his shoulder. "I know he wants to be there, Elijah, but you do understand that he cannot just leave whatever he is doing." Elijah nods his agreement. The greatest desire in Elijah's life is for Erik to be proud of him, to be able to congratulate Elijah with full honesty and joy, and I understand that Elijah sees his proem as his first chance. Somehow, Elijah is deaf to my insistence that Erik is, indeed, proud of him.

Leaving a half-eaten breakfast behind, Elijah stands (my head now reaches his chin), bends down to press his lips quickly to my forehead, grabs his books, and hurries out the door, his dark hair becoming mussed once again as the wind catches it.

I turn back to the kitchen and begin to clean up the breakfast. Every morning there are two plates that look as though they were played with more than eaten. I sigh and begin to wash, humming slightly as I do so. This suits me. I am happy. My decisions are now my own. This morning, I chose the dress I would wear. I chose what to cook for breakfast. I chose to be with my son. And this afternoon, I will choose what to do, and what I will eat, and what I will think. These decisions are best, because they are mine.

I decide to change my dress to something more formal after cleaning the kitchen and straightening up Elijah's bedroom. Then I make my way to the mansion. The sight still makes me uneasy. I am grateful that I am not required to come here daily, like Elijah. Erik still visits weekly, but I avoid it at all costs. Elijah has not been kept in the dark concerning the events of his birth. Erik put his foot down when I suggested telling Elijah that his birth was considerably normal, and that life has always existed as he knows it. But I do not think Elijah particularly cares that he was born in the mansion. He sees it, and will always see it, as his schoolhouse. As for Erik, he is, and will always be, mute on the subject of his feelings.

The mansion's courtyard has a few other carriages. When I step out, my arm is instantly taken by the school's supervisor, who leads me, blushing and protesting, to the front row of a crowd of chairs. He speaks to me for a few minutes while other adults file in and take seats. He then excuses himself, and I sit patiently and wait. A slight platform is in front of me, with a crowd of chairs on it, facing the audience. In a few minutes, a group of nervous-looking young men file into the room and take the seats on the platform. There are only one or two young ladies sitting in the seats.

"Sexism is more difficult to overcome than a government," Erik has said to me. "You must know that it will be years before mothers are willing to let their daughters go." I know he is right; I can imagine a little daughter for myself, and the thought of sending her away to school instead of keeping her home with me is slightly disgruntling.

It does not take me long to find Elijah. He catches my eye and smiles nervously. His gaze then scans the seats near me, and his face falls slightly. When he looks at me once again, this time questioning, I only shrug and smile apologetically. Elijah looks away. I know he is upset, and I make a mental note to speak with Erik this evening.

The school supervisor then steps onto the platform and addresses us briefly, and then he begins to announce names. These are the boys who have been deemed eligible to leave the school, those who have passed their final examinations with good marks and are now worthy to take their place amongst the people. Even though I know that Elijah's name will be called, I cannot help but feel anxiety creeping in. There is slight applause for each name, and the young man called stands and smiles, relieved, before sitting back down. Finally, Elijah's name is called, and his face breaks into a wide grin as he stands. I smile at him and clap appropriately, but I suddenly feel much more saddened by the fact that Erik did not come. When the announcing is over, Elijah makes his way to me, and I wrap my arms around him, forcing him to lean down to allow me to kiss his cheek. He grumbles his embarrassment and then straightens.

"Would you like me to take you home?" he asks.

"Of course not," I say, smiling. "You should be with your friends. Just _please_ don't cause trouble!"

He laughs and then turns, heading over to a group of other young men who hail him as he comes. People force their way over to speak with me when Elijah is gone; it is well-known that I am married to Erik. It is near-dark when I finally arrive home, and I change and then make dinner. Elijah bursts into the house near eight o' clock, looking windswept and radiant. He actually eats most of the things on his plate and then disappears up into his bedroom. After preparing a plate for Erik (however highly unnecessary), I go to my room and begin preparations for bed.

At long last, Erik enters the room, and I allow him a few minutes to become settled.

"How are you this evening?" he asks me, pulling off his jacket.

"Well," I say. "How are you?"

He shrugs, elegantly and yet somehow completely casually.

"How is the new hospital coming?"

He sighs tiredly. "Let's not talk of business tonight, Christine."

I seize this moment, grateful for his cutting off the beginning pleasantries. "Very well. Did you know that your son passed his final examination today?"

Fumbling with his necktie, he murmurs, "Hmm. Good."

There is a slight pause. "He was very disappointed that you were not there."

"I cannot seem to get this blasted thing untied. Come here, Christine, and help me."

With a roll of my eyes, I approach him and reach for the tie. Swiftly, he takes my hands and then kisses me. Every time he does something like this, I fall in love with him even more. Erik pulls away and looks at me. His golden eyes search mine, looking for something.

"I was there this afternoon," he finally says. "In the back, where no one could see me."

"Perhaps you should tell Elijah this. He cared more than I did."

"I don't feel much like speaking to anyone else tonight except you," he says blatantly. He rubs three fingers over his masked cheek slowly, watching for my reaction. But before I am able to say anything, there is a swift knock on the door, and Elijah enters.

"Mother, I have to – Oh." He stops short at the sight of Erik. "Good evening, Father." Elijah's voice changes from affectionate to strictly respectful as he switches to whom he is talking. "I didn't know you were home. I'm sorry I intruded." He steps out of the room.

"Wait, Elijah," I say, glancing meaningfully at Erik, who glares sourly at me. "Your father wishes to speak with you about some things."

Elijah watches us carefully, nodding as he does so. "What is it, Father?"

I slip out of the room, closing the door behind me. There have been many times when Erik and Elijah have spoken privately, but I know that this will be one of the most significant. They will speak about government and being men, and I am happy to let them do that. I want to continue to care for the two most important people in my existence.

My mind drifts back to the others that I cared for. Nadir Khan and Clara and Taurin…Raoul. Somehow I feel as though they knew their fates, and yet they continued, hoping that life would eventually come to what it is now: a father and son talking about things that are now so ordinary: school and work and other simple things. I cannot feel disappointed in the way my family has turned out, because there is nothing to be disappointed about. When I remember the turmoil of those years ago, it seems impossible that that life was once lived by me.

The things we have struggled and fought for, they have all led down to these simple, easy things, because they are the most important. They build and grow, and they will eventually turn out to be big things. In the end, it was not so much a change in the government: it was a change in the people. It was their willingness to accept the change and try. It is the fact that their families will prepare them to deal with new things. If these few generations fall away, and the government turns back into what it once was, there is the fact that those educated will realize what it is and denounce it. The securing of the future begins with the smallest of children, who grow up to know and see and experience, and they will be taught to understand and think. And when I think about Elijah and all that he knows, I cannot worry about what will come. I know that the goodness will prevail, and that there will be a person like Erik to bring us to the light. Perhaps it will not always be by the most obvious means, but we will get there, in the end. And the end will come, no matter what we do.

_Fin_

_----_

**I don't usually like doing author's notes at the end of stories, but I feel that I need to for this one. First off, I'd like to really thank everyone for staying with this story until the end. I know it was confusing, but hopefully everything makes sense by now. For the sake of some of the biggest questions, I will give you answers. Hopefully you already know this, however.**

**Erik did not shoot Raoul in Chapter 22. If you remember, Raoul had both guns. ****Raoul was not able to have children. He was infertile, which could not be allowed with his position of power. Near the end, he suspected this, which is why he tried so hard to impregnate Christine. He knew that Elijah was not his child, but he was willing to keep him to placate the other members of the Oligarchy, who had control over Raoul and used him endlessly. **

**Clara was Faye's daughter. In chapter 4, Clara says, "****My mother was not born here… not everyone is under the rule of the Oligarchy. My mother came from a free place; she never mentioned where…she was found...He forged papers and married her." Faye never told her daughter that the "free place" (the village) was destroyed, so Clara still believed in its existence. **

**Erik and Elijah did not have some kind of big problem. Elijah was simply a son who wanted his father to be proud, and Erik (being who he is) loved his son but had a hard time telling him. Christine was kind of the medium between the two. **

**This was a small country, with a unitary government. I think James Madison was right when he said that small countries are usually taken over by factions, and most of the time they are not good people. Mr. Madison said that the only way that a [republic] country can really succeed is if it is large enough to have many different-minded people. When this (obviously fictional) country first started, a faction took over, and, although they had good intentions, they fell away and others came in to take over. A small, unitary, totalitarian (to some extent) oligarchic government that became more of a dictatorship under Philippe, then fell back into the hands of other men when Raoul took over.**

**If you still have questions, please PM me. Thank you SO much for reading. I hope you enjoyed.**

**B-V**


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